A Little Kindness
by theatrewraith
Summary: -Sequel of To Stand Unshielded- During the Infinity Wars, Thanos uses the Time Stone to send Becca to the 1940s where she finds the man who would become her husband. Having always struggled to prove his worth, Steve is baffled by the woman with a mysterious past who treats him like any other man.
1. Hostage

Becca stared out the window at the clouds, her hands submerged in dishwater. Somewhere out there was Steve and rest of the Avengers. Apparently, an alien being had stolen these six ultra powerful Infinity Stones, including the one which had powered Vision. The team was following a lead. She hadn't questioned what little she had been told. Over the years, Becca had learned that it was better not to ask until whatever mission Steve had undertaken was complete. She worried less that way.

This time was different though. A lot of people were already dead. Steve had sounded concerned when she last spoke to him, and that made her anxious. Becca chewed her bottom lip. He would be okay. The whole Avengers team was with him, including Bucky. If nothing else, those two would protect each other.

With the dishes complete, Becca drained the water from the sink. She rinsed off her hands before slipping her engagement and wedding rings back on. It would be three months this upcoming Thursday since she had married Steve. The excitement was going to wear off eventually, but she still got a bit of a thrill whenever she had to sign her new name or heard the paparazzi call "Mrs. Rogers!" Married life was agreeing with her. Not that married life had been much different than her life before the wedding. She continued to work as a lead copywriter, a promotion granted last year, and volunteer with Narcotics Anonymous. Steve went out on missions and trained with the Avengers as their leader. When he came home, they spent as much time together as possible. Life was great.

But when Becca saw a blue glow out of the corner of her eye, she felt as though something had just gone very wrong. The glow came from the living room behind her, accompanied by a faint humming, sucking noise. She was overcome with the feeling of déjà vu and with it a sense of prickling unease. Carefully, she moved across the kitchen without turning her head. From beneath a stack of dishtowels in one of the drawers, she pulled out a handgun.

In one smooth movement, Becca clicked the safety off and whirled around to face… nothing but blue light. The light was spreading outwards in a circle and in the center something was growing. What the fuck? But although she was confused, the sense of déjà vu increased. Becca got the sinking feeling it was the same light she'd seen above Stark Tower the day of the alien invasion.

As she debated whether to attempt skirting the light to reach the front door, her phone went off. The sound spurred her to make a decision. Becca ran around the glow, noticing that what had grown in the center was a view of stone pillars and stars. The timing of her phone ringing seemed too coincidental to be ignored. Keeping the gun held out, she took out her phone and glanced at the display. Steve was calling. She answered while jamming her feet into sneakers.

"Steve –"

" _Are you all right?"_ Steve sounded so concerned that on instinct Becca almost reassured him.

"There's a portal opening in our living room." A figure appeared in the opening. The being had purple skin and wore armor. A gauntlet on his right hand drew her attention because of the six glowing stones embedded in the metal. Becca unlocked and yanked open the front door. "There's an alien. I think he's the one you've been looking for."

" _Don't engage him,"_ Steve instructed, alarm straining his voice. _"Get out of there."_

Becca was about to sprint through the door, when a flash of yellow light shot through the portal and hit her. Suddenly, she had no desire to run whatsoever.

The being smirked and in a low voice said, "Tell your Avengers that I have a message for them."

Obediently, Becca relayed, "He has a message for the Avengers. Can you put me on speaker?"

Steve inhaled sharply. _"Tony, can you make it so everyone can hear this?"_ After a moment, she heard a click. _"All right. We're listening."_

As the being spoke to her, Becca repeated his words. "The time for distractions had ended. Six of those precious to you have been taken: Pepper Potts, Jane Foster, Gideon Wilson, Amelia Barton, Clea Strange, and now Rebecca Rogers. Best me in battle or they will perish."

Thanos gave a single nod of satisfaction. "That is all. Put away your device."

"That's it. Goodbye."

A number of voices clamored over each other, questioning where to go, wanting to know more. Steve called her name. Becca hung up and tucked the phone into her pocket. She set down the gun and followed Thanos when he beckoned, crossing through the portal.

A day passed, in which Thanos destroyed a great number of people. Becca did not flinch at the death toll. She did not care, nor did the five others Thanos had taken. Under the influence of the stones, they sat passive and silent in the space stronghold.

In a burst of blue light, they appeared alongside Thanos in the middle of a street. Car littered the concrete, their occupants gone or dead. There were people though, some running, others stunned. The Avengers and other allies attempted to shepherd the civilians away, to create order out of the chaos. Thanos had drawn them here, back to New York. It seemed he had chosen the battle ground where Loki had failed. Maybe that was the point.

The Avengers and allies gathered slowly, cautious about a trap. Becca knew some of them personally, others were only familiar faces. There were a few beings she didn't recognize at all, including what appeared to be a raccoon holding a massive gun. She felt nothing when Steve looked at her, his body language displaying a mix of relief and anxiety.

"I notice that my daughter Gamora is not among you," said Thanos, as his eyes slid over the group.

"She said she couldn't stand to look at your face again," replied a man in a red leather coat. "Can't blame her. That's a lot of ugly for –"

Steve held up a hand and talked over him. "We're here like you wanted, but this isn't their fight." He nodded towards the hostages. "Let them go."

"If you can reach them," grumbled Thanos, "they will be free."

During the ensuing battle, a few of the heroes went down. Some got up. Some didn't. Blood streaked the ground, and black marks appeared where various powers scorched metal and concrete alike. Gamora appeared with a small group, which appeared to catch Thanos slightly off guard.

Enough that Becca was suddenly free. She swayed, hunger and the lack of sleep making her dizzy. Blood rushed through her ears, pounding over the sound of battle around her. This fight might be more like toying – since Thanos had displayed the ability to kill in an instant – but her freedom had proven that he could be distracted.

That was why Becca made the split second decision to leap at him. All she needed was to give the heroes an extra second. Besides, she was at just the right angle to make a dive for the gauntlet.

Whether the other hostages did the same or chose to run, she would never know because Thanos caught the movement. Becca lost control of her body with the tips of her fingers almost touching the gauntlet. She froze as still as a statue. The gauntlet lifted from her vision and landed on her shoulder, warm and heavy.

"Wait!" shouted Steve.

Becca wasn't sure if the instruction was meant for Thanos or the others as well, but the heroes' attacks did stop. In the corner of her eye, she could see Thanos grin.

"I shall make you an offer. Turn your back on your petty team and fight against them." The orange stone brightened. "Or I do to your Rebecca what has been done to you."

The gauntlet lifted. Becca tried to step away and found herself freed. She staggered back. An orange glow had formed around her, although she could not yet feel any effect.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked.

"She will be lost in time." Becca glanced up, her gaze flitting from Thanos to land on Steve. "For the rest of her short life."

Becca had a second to read the dismay in Steve's eyes before she felt a pull on her chest, as though she was wearing a harness that someone yanked without warning.

Then, she blinked, and everything changed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **That's right. Time travel! I'm quite excited even if Becca and Steve aren't.**

 **I will be attempting to make this fic historically accurate. I'm no history buff however, so apologies to those who are if I make some mistakes. Also, as a heads up, this may include using terms/ideas that are offensive by today's standards but appropriate to the time period.**

 **The rating may go up, but for now it's T.**

 **Hopefully, I'll have time to write a full chapter by next week, but it'll really depend on my schedule. See you soon, lovelies.**


	2. Hello, Stranger

Brick walls with fire escapes. Evidence of litter. A nasty, dank smell. She was in a narrow alleyway. That was all Becca could figure out before an overwhelming dizziness drove her to the ground. She managed to catch herself on her hands and spent the next several seconds dry heaving. Whiteness crept into the corners in her vision. If she was going to stay conscious, she had to lie down. Carefully, she collapsed onto her side and took several deep breaths.

What had happened? Now that Becca no longer felt quite so lightheaded, confusion set in. She wasn't dead. At least, she didn't think she was dead. If this was the afterlife, she was unimpressed with the entrance. But wait, Thanos had said he would do to her "what had been done" to Steve. Had the stone preserved her like the serum and ice? This certainly didn't look like the future. This looked like a regular alleyway. And surely if she had been preserved somehow it wouldn't be an in alley. Or maybe this was still the present and Steve had decided to fight, but on the condition she was placed out of harm's way.

As much as Becca felt like never getting up, she needed to try. She had to figure out exactly where she'd been dumped and get her hands on some water. Sitting was a struggle. While summoning up the energy to stand, Becca brushed a lump in her pocket. She pulled out her phone, but the battery had died. So much for that. She put the phone away and used one of the walls to heave herself to her feet. The dizziness returned at near full force, so she leaned against the wall and waited for the feeling to recede.

A discarded newspaper had flown into a puddle close by. Becca used the wall for support to walk over, hoping the paper would give her some clue as to her location. The headline read "U.S. At War!" She frowned. Before reading further, she glanced at the publisher. It was the _Daily News_! If she was in New York, then she could get home. Her eyes dropped back down to the sub-headline. "Congress Replies to Japanese Attack."

Completely baffled, Becca crouched. Under the heading had been printed a picture of damaged buildings near the ocean with the caption "Pearl Harbor Naval Base." Hang on. She checked the publishing date.

 _Monday, December 8, 1941_

Someone must have printed this newspaper for a play or project about WWII. It looked relatively new, so she doubted this paper had come from a person who had been hording newspapers all these years. Becca got back up, disappointed. She might not be in New York after all. Only one way to tell. She headed for the mouth of the alley, skirting around a few homeless people. They didn't pay any attention to her.

A car trundled past the alley, mostly blocked by people walking by. The color was a pink pastel Becca associated exclusively with older cars. Another one drove closely behind, mint green. Maybe there was a car show. The people seemed like they were all dressed nicely. Was she in a business district? However, Becca realized there was something off about their clothing. The style had a slight familiarity, but it was… old fashioned. She stopped at the sidewalk and stared.

There weren't just a few early model cars. All of them were old models, but most looked brand new. A cab navigated through the cars, squat and yellow. And the people – The woman all wore dresses and skirts and stockings. The men had loafers and suits, their jackets occasionally flapping in the wind to reveal suspenders beneath. No one was talking on phones, texting, or listening to music. What the hell? Where was she? It was almost like… like she had gone back in time or something.

Becca stepped onto the sidewalk and followed the flow of the crowd. There were no crosswalk timers. Stoplights were on these weird poles in the middle of the street. While cars sat in traffic, there were no huge jams. The billboards had all kinds of crazy fonts and flat, drawn images. Not a photo-shopped pictured in sight. Becca couldn't have put an exact date on what time period this looked like, but the year 1941 as suggested by the newspaper seemed about right.

What had Thanos done to her? Was she dreaming? Becca thought back to the last moments before the alleyway. An orange light had appeared around her. When she had been taken from her living room, the light had been blue. The blue stone had also been used during the invasion, so that one was for space travel. The yellow stone was definitely for mind control. The red and purple ones had flashed while wreaking destruction. The green stone was a mystery, and, even more unfortunately, she had no idea what the orange stone did either.

At newspaper stand, Becca learned that it was supposedly December 10, 1941 in New York City. She crouched in another alley because she needed to think over what the fuck was happening. One possibility was that she really had died and the afterlife was the Forties for some reason. That option seemed extremely suspect. She hadn't lived in 1941, so why should it look like 1941 when she died? A second possibility was that Thanos was messing with her head. But why make her think she was in 1941? How would he even know what this era looked like on Earth? She certainly didn't know about the Forties in this much detail, so it seemed unlikely this place could be reconstructed in her head. But wait, Steve would know. Maybe Thanos had seen into Steve's head and made her think she was in this time while her body was elsewhere. Still, it would be an odd punishment because Steve couldn't know for sure that had happened, could he? She had no idea what the full power of the stones entailed.

But what else was left, actual time travel? There was no such thing as time travel. Becca chewed her lip and sighed. Five years ago, there was no such thing as aliens or space portals either. And hadn't Thanos said she would be "lost in time?" Steve had woken up in the future, but being put in the past made Becca just as lost. Those stones held massive power. If anything could create the possibility of time travel, she supposed the Infinity Stones could do it. Okay, so she couldn't totally discount being thrown back in time. It was a crazy, but she had seen her fair share of crazy. As long as there was a chance, she would have to be very careful about the choices that she made. As anyone who had read or watched anything about time travel knew, it was best to create as few ripples as possible.

Becca winced as her stomach gurgled. She was going to need water and food. It was chilly out, and she wasn't dressed to withstand cold temperatures. Shelter would be necessary, too. For all of those things, she would need money. Did she have anything valuable? Her phone was potentially priceless in the right hands, but could create huge ripples. She dug through her pockets. Nothing else to sell. She rubbed her hands together to warm them and glanced down. Her wedding and engagement rings.

Although Becca hated to part with them, they were definitely worth a good chunk of change. She was tempted to beg instead. These were all she had of Steve, and she would have to deal with the very real chance she might never see him again.

Yet, if Thanos was defeated and her body was still breathing or there was a chance she was alive, Steve would try to get her back. She had to survive to give him time. She would pawn the rings and get some food and a change of clothes. She would try to find work. Maybe she would save up enough for an apartment. Once she had a source of income and food, she would have to do some research on time travel at the library. Part of her wanted to start screaming, but having a plan helped to keep her from completely freaking out.

Becca got to her feet. She would have to find a pawn shop. Hopefully she could get a good price for the rings. Not that she knew what a good price would be. She hadn't the faintest idea what the dollar was worth. Looking around in shop windows might give her some kind of idea. Becca wished that she had asked Steve about the Forties more. He had told her some things, but she had the feeling that most of what little she could remember wouldn't be important. If only he were here.

Hold on, if she really had been sent to New York in 1941 and the US had joined WWII this past week, then Steve _was_ here. He wouldn't know her, but she knew him. Steve would never turn away from someone in trouble if they asked for his help. He might be able to give her an idea about what the rings were worth. Maybe he'd even know a place to sell them where she wouldn't get ripped off.

The more Becca thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Even if she was trapped in her own head and all these people were projections, Steve would surely be the helpful part of her subconscious. Just in case, she wouldn't tell him the truth. She didn't even know what the truth was exactly, and any version would sound nuts. Instead, she'd make up a story and say she wasn't from New York City. That way she could ask more questions.

There were two times that Becca had visited Steve's old neighborhood. Once he had shown her himself. The other time, she was home with Bucky during his initial recovery period, and he had been insistent about going. She vaguely remembered the area, although the buildings were sure to look completely different.

Navigating her way there required asking for directions, which proved somewhat difficult. A lot of people ignored her entirely or gave her a strange look before scuttling away. Her pants in particular continued to draw a lot of negative attention, from disapproving glares to disparaging comments, the most common of which was "dyke" spat out like a curse. However, a couple of nice people stopped and pointed the way. One generous woman even pressed a quarter into her hand. Becca used the money to get a bottle of apple juice – which tasted only a little sweet and a lot watery – and a small loaf of warm bread, leaving her with seven cents. Eating made her feel sick, so she did so very slowly.

Walking through Manhattan was rather surreal. Becca experienced moments of familiarity at the sight of certain street signs. When she passed through Times Square, she stopped and gawked for a minute because it was so recognizable and yet so different. The many lights were the familiar part. The prostitutes walking around, not so much.

The novelty soon wore off. She was exhausted and freezing. Judging by the sun, she had started walking early in the morning. It was into the afternoon by the time she reached Brooklyn. Whenever she stopped to ask for directions, her legs trembled with the effort of keeping her upright.

Finally, Becca thought she had reached the correct stretch of street. The problem was that all of the tenant buildings looked the same and, of course, they were all different from the buildings lining the street in the twenty-first century. She had two choices, wander the sidewalk and hope to run into Steve or start knocking on doors.

"Hi. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the landlord?"

Becca repeated those words whenever someone opened the door for her. A lot of those doors were slammed in her face immediately. If she could locate the landlord, she'd tell him a made up story about needing to return a lost item to one Mr. Steve Rogers. Every time she got turned away, Becca grew more doubtful that she had remembered the right area. Or this could prove that she hadn't time traveled at all.

Another couple of buildings and Becca might have given up.

"Steve Rogers?" repeated one landlord, a thin man with a faint Irish accent. The way he said the name made Becca perk up.

"Yes. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. He'd be short."

The landlord nodded. "Sure, he lives here. If you go around the corner, take the stairs up to the third floor. His is the door in the corner. 'Course he's likely still at work. If you want to hand over whatever you got for him, I'll pass it along."

"Oh. Thank you. I'll just check if he's here first. Thanks."

Becca hurried off, relieved. She'd found him. She couldn't help feeling that things were going to be a little bit better now.

No one answered when she knocked. Becca knocked again with the same result. The landlord had said Steve was probably at work, but it was getting to be late in the afternoon. Surely Steve would come home soon.

Becca knew that she should keep moving. Sitting down in the cold made for a potentially deadly combination, but now that she was here all of her remaining energy deserted her. She collapsed down against a wall and huddled into the corner next to the door. She would wait for an hour, no more. In the meantime, she would think over what would be best to do with her remaining seven cents.

Hard as Becca tried to stay awake she was just… so… tired…

* * *

Steve took the stairs slowly, today's newspaper tucked under his arm. The cold made each breath feel like a strain. It always made his feet hurt more than usual too, especially when he'd been on his feet most of the day. He had been working on a large mural. Painting was not his strong point, but he went where the WPA sent him. Thankfully, there was a sketch of the mural to follow and several other artists who better understood painting. The mural, which would display the American flag amongst the devastation at Pearl Harbor, had him thinking about the war. Of course, he'd been thinking about little else these past couple days. He felt like he needed to do something to help.

To his surprise, Steve found a person huddled beside his door. The woman was a bit dirty and smelled faintly, markers of homelessness. Yet, Steve thought that if she was living on the streets, it was a recent change. Her hair, though greasy, had been cut in a particular angled style. Her clothing, though a strange combination of brightly colored fabric and shoes made of puffy material, wasn't overly dirty. She didn't have the lean look of someone accustomed to missing meals. In fact, she had a pretty full figure. She had been missing sleep lately, however. Dark rings had formed beneath her eyes. His largest concern was that she appeared to be freezing. Her chapped lips had turned purple, and she shivered continuously.

Steve walked over to her. The woman didn't open her eyes. She could be asleep. If he left her like this, he had the feeling she might never wake up. The nights got bitter cold. In all likelihood, he would open his door in the morning to a body unless he did something. Steve shrugged off his coat.

When he laid the coat over her chest, the woman woke up with a gasp. Steve jerked back, startled. She looked so fearful for a moment that he got a guilty feeling, even though he'd done nothing wrong. Her wide eyes held his, and the fear drained away. She sighed, a relieved sound.

"Hi," she greeted through chattering teeth.

"Hello."

The woman glanced down at his coat and her lips curved into a small smile. "This is your coat?"

"Yeah, but you can have it, ma'am. I have another one," he lied as she got to her feet.

"I see." The woman raised an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth twitched, which made Steve think that she didn't believe him. "It's nice of you, but I can't accept this." She held out the coat to him, and he noticed the rings she wore.

The diamond on her engagement ring looked nice enough. Either this woman had money once or her husband did. Steve figured it likely she was a widow or else she wouldn't be on her own. Rent could be tough when living alone, and while times were getting better, they were still hard.

"Keep it," Steve insisted.

"Well, it's not exactly my size."

Steve winced. Any other man would have been able to give her a bigger coat. "Sorry."

"No. I didn't mean it like that," the woman assured him. "I just meant that I'm a big gal. But hey, if it wasn't for these extra pounds, I'd probably have frozen already, huh?"

Steve didn't know what to say to that. He stared at her dumbly, trying to come up with a polite response. She waited a few seconds before pressing on.

"Look, I'm sorry to bother you with this, but I'm not from around here. I don't know anyone or I'd be on their doorstep instead. I don't want money, but I'd really appreciate it if you could spare me five minutes to answer a few questions." She lifted his coat higher. "I've got this nice coat I could trade you for your time."

There was the distinct possibility that this woman could be a grifter, but Steve thought she seemed fairly genuine. With the way she was dressed, not many people were likely to give her so much as a second glance. He knew a little of what it was like to be alone and invisible. If he turned her away, he'd be sitting inside by himself not helping anyone while she shivered out in the cold. Should it turn out she did want money, he could give her a couple of greenbacks if that meant she had somewhere halfway decent to stay tonight.

"It is a good coat."

"Mhm." The woman grinned. "And I think it's even in your size."

Steve decided he liked her. He held out his hand. "I'm Steve."

"Rebecca."

Her skin felt icy cold against his palm. Steve figured if they were going to be talking, he should invite her in where she could warm up. The steam heating wasn't the best, but the temperature would certainly be better than out here.

"Would you like to come in? It'll be warmer."

"Um, okay. That'd be great."

Steve unlocked the door to his apartment and ushered Rebecca inside. He quickly glanced around to make sure that the kitchen was tidy, but he tended to keep everything neat. She probably wouldn't even notice. He was getting nervous over nothing. It was just that he'd never had a woman in his apartment before. Although, to be fair, he'd never had anyone visit his apartment except Bucky. Steve liked people, but he'd never been good at making friends. A couple years back, he'd sort of given up on the prospect. Finding friends or a girl, the search hadn't seemed so important anymore.

At the kitchen table, Steve pulled out a chair for Rebecca. She sat with murmured thanks and hung his coat over the back of the chair. He took the seat across from her, setting the newspaper to one side.

"So I guess I'll start with the most pressing question. I'm sure you don't know exactly, but what do you think these are worth?" Rebecca slid off her rings and set them on the table in front of him.

Selling her wedding rings seemed another sure sign that she was a widow. Steve supposed she could have been running away from a marriage, but Rebecca handled the rings so gently. He couldn't recall ever seeing a diamond like this on an engagement ring, but he didn't see many engagement rings. He appraised the wedding ring next. The gold band had been engraved on the inside, which he figured could knock down the value. He had to squint because his blurry vision made picking out the thin letters difficult.

 _S.G.R. & R.M.S. _

Steve's eyes widened. It was a hell of a coincidence that her husband's initials were the same as his. He glanced up at Rebecca, but she appeared occupied looking around the kitchen. No need to spook her with the information. Steve supposed that his initials weren't all that uncommon. He thought it could be a sign that he'd done right by trying to help her.

"These are nice rings," Steve concluded, returning them. Rebecca nodded and slipped the rings immediately back onto her finger. "That engagement ring by itself has got to be at least a hundred, but you're not gonna find a place around here that will give you that much. You'll want to go back into Manhattan."

"Oh." Somehow Rebecca looked even more tired than when she'd been shivering on the landing. "You don't happen to know somewhere specific, do you?"

"Uh…" Steve tried to recall places he'd heard of where other men had bought rings, but most of the people he was around couldn't afford anything as nice as the ones Rebecca was wearing. She'd need a high class place. "I'd look around Fifth Avenue."

"Fifth Avenue." Rebecca shook her head. "I bet they're going to love this –" She pinched the dirty fabric of her shirt. "– walking into one of their jewelry stores."

She made a good point. Steve didn't think any store owner would take her appearance well. Either they'd refuse her service or turn her away at the door. Or try and rip her off.

"I'll go with you," Steve offered. Realizing how forward the offer sounded, he went on, "If you wanted. I just thought if someone like you – not that I'm saying…"

"It's okay," laughed Rebecca. "I know I'm dressed really different. I'm…" She sighed, the good humor draining from her face. "Anyway, I don't mean to impose."

"It's all right. I don't mind. But we better get going if we want to make it before the shops close."

Steve got his suit jacket so that he'd have something protective against the cold. His coat might not fit Rebecca, but she could still throw it over her shoulders. When he returned to the kitchen, she was in the washroom. He started cleaning the dishes in the sink, which gave him the idea that he should offer her food. There wasn't much, but he cut up a couple slices of bread to make sandwiches. While she was out of sight, he also drank his daily dose of liver juice. He had gotten used to the look and taste, but Bucky always made a face when he saw the stuff.

A slightly cleaner Rebecca emerged from the bathroom. She had managed to smooth down her hair some and her odd clothing appeared less disheveled. She flashed him a smile of bright white teeth. Anyone who gave her a second glance would know she had money once by the whiteness of her teeth alone.

They left his apartment, and Rebecca asked him questions while nibbling on the sandwich he'd handed her.

Rebecca didn't talk like she came from a wealthy family and she had shown no hint of being surprised at his small apartment. On the other hand, she hadn't seemed impressed when he estimated her engagement ring to be worth a hundred, which added up to almost three months pay for him. The clothes she wore were unlike any he'd seen and he knew the material to be soft from brushing her shirt. The only explanation that made any kind of sense was a European fashion trend, and the only people who kept up on those were the rich.

As best as Steve could figure it, he guessed that she hadn't been raised rich, but married into money. Of course, he didn't care one way or another, but he was curious about her. When Rebecca had said she "wasn't from around here," Steve had taken that to mean she had lived in one of the suburbs. Yet, the way she surveyed her surroundings intently, how she appeared occasionally taken aback by things such as the subway car they rode, and the questions she asked hinted instead that she was from somewhere else all together. A lot of people came to the cities when they had nowhere else to go. She could have spent the last of her money getting here.

Although he was tempted, asking questions seemed like a bad idea. Steve doubted Rebecca would like talking about the past when she had ended up sleeping on a doorstep alone on the poor side of town. He didn't have much time to mull over her situation since she kept a line of conversation going. She asked about his work, living in Brooklyn, his neighbors, what they did for work, how to look for a room in the papers, what kinds of questions to ask, types of transportation, and so on. Steve wasn't used to talking this much. It was a nice change.

Fifth Avenue and the surrounding streets bustled with activity. Steve didn't have a reason to come around this part of town much, but he'd been often enough to know that more people were visiting these shops than had been in years. The improving economy played a part, but with the US joining the war and fear that the Japs might drop bombs elsewhere, it wasn't hard to guess that a lot of people were determined to make the most of the holidays.

When they came across a jewelry window display that featured rings, Steve suggested, "How about this place?"

"Okay," Rebecca agreed. However, she hesitated when he opened the door. "I actually need a minute first."

"All right," said Steve, but she was already retreating down the street. He hastened to catch up.

Rebecca made a sharp right onto another street and then a left. The cold air and the fast pace made Steve's lungs burn, but he didn't ask her to slow down. It already looked like she was holding herself back. Given a big, open space, Steve thought she would be running.

In Union Square Park, Rebecca picked a spot on the near dead grass to sit. Steve lowered himself beside her as she stared at the statue of George Washington, twisting the rings around her finger. Tears had gathered in the corner of her eyes, so he tried setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. As soon as he did, Rebecca gasped in an unsteady breath and the tears fell down her cheeks. Alarmed by her reaction, Steve pulled his hand away. He should have known better. When it came to women, he could never do anything right. He clenched his jaw, frustrated with himself.

Rebecca wiped away her tears. "Sorry. It was really nice of you to walk me to a jewelry store and this isn't at all what you signed up for."

"You don't have to apologize."

"Maybe not, but I'm usually better about holding things together. It's just been a lot." Rebecca gave her rings a sad look. "I know I have to sell these, and I thought I was okay with it. But when I looked in the shop, I guess I realized how much they mean to me and, um, selling them feels like dishonoring our –" She shook her head once, irritably. "– dishonoring _my_ marriage somehow."

From the intent way Rebecca glanced at him, Steve felt like she was searching for some kind of response. It was apparent from the slip up that she was trying to move past her husband's death, but he knew from experience that moving on from losing someone close could be hard. Steve wished he had enough money to give her so that she could make a start without having to sell the rings. But he was barely scraping by himself. All he could offer was his thoughts.

"I don't know the first thing about your husband, but from the way you look at those rings, it seems like he must've cared about you. And if he cared about you, I think he'd want you to get off the streets however you can. So, in a way, I guess selling your rings would be the opposite of dishonoring your marriage 'cause you're doing what he would've wanted."

Rebecca said nothing for what seemed to be forever, but only because Steve worried that he had gone and gummed up again. So her smile came as a relief.

"You know, somehow I think my husband would agree with you," Rebecca said, and, to Steve's surprise, she placed her hand on top of his. "I needed to hear that. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Steve scrambled to his feet as Rebecca moved so that he could offer her a hand up.

"Thanks." Rebecca gripped his hand and let him take some of her weight as she stood. "Okay. Let's do this."

They returned to the jewelry store, and this time when Steve opened the door, she went inside. He trailed behind Rebecca, who received several scandalized and disbelieving looks. Those expressions didn't concern Steve as much as that of the man who hurried in their direction as they approached the counter. With a tight smile and the hard expression in his eyes, it was clear the man meant to show Rebecca the door.

"Hi," greeted Rebecca before the man had a chance to speak. "I'd like to know how much these rings are worth, please." She pulled off her rings and held them out in a cupped palm.

The man didn't so much as give the rings a glance. "If you're looking for a pawn shop, might I suggest checking a few streets over?"

"Well, I'm actually not looking for a pawn shop at the moment. I'd just like you to take a look at these."

"Ma'am, I don't think –"

Steve was about to intervene, when Becca drew herself up. "I trust you have heard of the Rockefellers?"

"Uh…" The man looked taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I'll have you know that my dear, late husband was a Rockefeller," she informed him haughtily. "He might not have been a part of _the_ family, but he was certainly beloved of them. Now, I've been trying to make my own way without their help, but I will contact them if I have no other choice. And I'm afraid I'll have to tell them that this establishment refused me service unless you kindly tell me how much the rings are worth."

"Yes, ma'am. Right away." After delicately taking the rings, the man hurried off.

Steve gaped at Rebecca. He couldn't believe he'd been accompanying someone who had married into one of the most famous families in America. He'd had a Rockefeller in his apartment. Wait until Bucky got a load of this.

"Don't look too excited," Rebecca murmured. "This was obviously going nowhere, so I made that up. I could never be that pretentious in real life."

"Oh." Not that it mattered, but meeting a Rockefeller would have made for a hell of a story. She had sure sounded convincing. All right, Steve could admit to himself that he was a little disappointed.

"If it's any consolation, my husband's much more famous than the Rockefellers."

"Right," Steve said, but he wasn't quite sure if Rebecca was pulling his leg or not because of the mysterious grin she flashed him. He felt like she was teasing him. Yet, he didn't know how or why.

The man came back minutes later, his demeanor changed to contrite deference and a hint of excitement. "My apologies for the wait. This diamond has been most finely cut and set, our jeweler was quite taken with it." He set down the rings on top of the counter and shifted the engagement ring aside. "He valued this at three-hundred fifty." Steve stared at the ring, which was worth more than seven months pay. He'd known the diamond was nice, just not that nice. "Your wedding band is made from 18-carat gold, but I'm afraid the engraving detracted significantly from the value. This is worth around ten."

Rebecca picked up the rings and turned them around in her hands, chewing the corner of her lip. Reluctantly, she placed the engagement ring back down. "Will you buy this?"

"Of course, ma'am," the man answered, eagerly taking the ring.

"I'd like cash please."

"That is most unusual."

"I'm in an unusual situation. I need cash or I'll have to go somewhere else."

"One moment." The man strode into a back room.

Rebecca replaced the wedding band on her finger. "Do you think I should've haggled for more?"

Three-hundred fifty was already so much that Steve hadn't even thought she might be able to get more money. However, it could be that the man had given Rebecca a lower price, certain from her appearance that she needed to sell the rings.

"Maybe."

Rebecca sighed. "Guess it's still worth a try."

In the end, she got three-hundred and sixty bucks for her engagement ring. The man counted the bills into a neat pile that was worth more than Steve had ever seen all at once. After promising to put in a good word with "her family," Rebecca turned to leave and Steve followed after her.

"I think I can take it from here," Rebecca informed him and held out a hand. "Thanks so much for your help."

"You're welcome." Steve shook her hand. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah. It's been interesting. Oh, and here's your coat back." She shrugged his coat off her shoulders. "That's the next stop, I think. Maybe I'll go shock the people at Macy's next."

Steve chuckled. "I'm sure you will."

"That was almost confident sass. You keep on being sassy, Steve. I have a feeling you're going to find a woman someday who will appreciate it."

"Uh, thanks."

"Mhmm."

They stood there looking at each other for a moment. Meeting Rebecca and this whole experience had been kind of odd, but Steve had found that he liked her company. This had certainly been more interesting than anything else he would have done today. Most importantly she had some money now and a way to start out.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye for now," Rebecca stated. "Maybe I'll see you again someday."

In a city this size, Steve doubted it, but he nodded. "Good luck."

"You too." Suddenly, Rebecca got this strange look on her face like she might be in pain. He would have asked if something was wrong, but she stunned him by swooping down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Steve."

Steve stared after her retreating back, which quickly disappeared in the crowd. "Goodbye, Rebecca."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **For those of you who are interested, I figured I'd include some historical facts. It just didn't make sense to explain during Steve's POV since he'd already know these things!** **Credit to various internet sources and newspapers for this information. Thank goodness for modern research methods.**

 **\- The WPA (Works Projects Administration) was an agency formed in 1935 to give unemployed people jobs working for the public. One project under this administration focused specifically on those with skills in various artistic fields.**  
 **\- Liver juice was prescribed for people with anemia to drink daily.**  
 **\- Due to the Great Depression, engagement rings were uncommon and diamond rings even more so. They would not become popular again until a campaign in 1947, which coincidently is the reason diamond rings are still so popular today.**  
 **\- $1.00 in 1941 amounts to approximately $16.77 today.**

 **Thanks for the support! See y'all soon.**


	3. Ramblings, Misunderstandings, and Cake

Becca spent the first few days getting situated.

With the money from selling her engagement ring, she purchased a new outfit and winter coat to blend in better. She needed to conserve money, so her best bet on living arrangements was either finding a roommate or renting a room. Making friends could potentially create too many ripples if this was the past. Also, it would be a good idea to avoid becoming attached to anyone.

On a street corner, Becca bought a newspaper and picked out rooms for rent. She found herself drawn to the ads for rooms in Brooklyn, but living near Steve was a bad idea. As long as they didn't meet again, Becca thought it unlikely he'd remember her face from their one brief encounter, especially since he didn't have his super-memory yet. Using her full name had been an added precaution. She looked at the rooms uptown where she had once lived with Ally and in East Village where she shared an apartment with Steve. But Brooklyn was cheaper. Becca told herself that was the only reason she picked it. Brooklyn was a sizeable area with a lot of people all squashed together. She could disappear there.

Two rooms were being rented out in what seemed to be the nicer part of Brooklyn, although "nice" really meant slightly less dirty and cramped. Even though it was late, Becca visited both places before deciding. The room she chose was a few dollars more, but the apartment had decent heating and offered breakfast on the weekends. Plus, the Goulds didn't seem overly nosy for an elderly couple. Her story about being recently widowed had proved satisfactory, and they didn't question more beyond that. When they asked for the eleven dollars upfront for the first month, Becca gave it to them.

After picking at a small dinner, Becca borrowed a pen and excused herself to her room. She circled all the jobs in the paper that she might be qualified for before realizing that a lot of these places probably wouldn't hire her as a woman. She reevaluated the job listings, really hoping the hiring managers weren't expecting a resume or references. It had never seemed like people needed either in old-time movies, but who knew how accurate those were. Next, she made a list of essentials for a shopping trip the next day with things like another change of clothes, a hairbrush, and assorted toiletries. Showering was strange because the showerhead pointed straight down and the hot water didn't last too long, but Becca managed to scrub herself clean while thinking over the list. She added a couple of items and went to bed.

With no further tasks to keep her occupied, Becca had a breakdown. Was she dead? Was she trapped in her mind? Was she in the past? How long would she be here? Could she get home again? How? There were so many question, and she had no answers. All she knew was that she was alone in an unfamiliar time. Becca muffled her sobbing with a pillow, turning only when she began to hyperventilate. While she hadn't touched prescription meds in years, there were even moments when she wished for Adderall to make her feel better or Oxy to put her into a deep sleep.

Several times during the night, Becca awoke from nightmares about Thanos and all the people she had seen killed. The first seconds upon waking were always confusing until she remembered where she was. Disappointed each time by not finding herself home, she'd curl up and sleep only to repeat the cycle. Eventually, she was overcome by exhaustion and slept into the late afternoon.

Becca had hoped that she could find office work, but it turned out that even though typewriter keys were generally laid out the same as a keyboard, using them felt very different. Given a week, she was confident she could adapt quickly, but no employer wanted to hear that excuse. There were a lot of people looking for work, and many already had the necessary skills. Becca tried other places – sales, waitressing – but it was already late, and anything in the customer service industry got much busier as evening approached. She decided to try again the next day.

Shopping took two trips, but Becca got all the items on her list. She went to a hairdresser, too. Her hair had been too long and cut in the wrong fashion. She paid careful attention to what the stylist did and bought curlers afterwards. In a tiny notebook purchased for keeping track of expenses, Becca noted down the $41.19 she had spent and what each dollar had been spent on. Not only was it a good idea to keep an eye on her funds, but she also hoped this would help her understand how much the dollar was worth. Out of her remaining money, half she folded and hid under a bedside lamp. Most of the remaining bills, she tucked into her bra. The rest went into a coat pocket.

Her last concern for that day was her cell phone. Becca was afraid to leave it in her room. Someone breaking in and taking her money would be bad, but finding the cell phone could lead to a potentially catastrophic situation. Fortunately, money belts already existed. Unfortunately, the lump would be too conspicuous around her waist. She was no expert when it came to sewing, but Becca borrowed a needle, scissors, thread, and pins from Mrs. Gould. Eventually, she configured the belt to fit around her thigh. She could even pin the belt to her garters for extra insurance.

For the record, garters were not comfortable. Becca had worn them a couple of times as part of a sexy outfit, but wearing them for long periods led to chafing. Sleeping with curlers in, also not comfortable. Bras were uncomfortable as well. They covered so much more skin and came to these weird points. She had washed her original set of clothes. When her bra dried, she would be wearing it. No one would be seeing her bra, and she didn't think anything would come of the slightly different shape. Having at least one familiar piece of clothing on would be nice. Becca considered her fashion sense to be fairly tasteful, but all these collars up around her neck, the skirts around her knees, the tights – it was a bit… much. Her one consolation was that she hadn't ended up in the eighteen-hundreds or something. Fashion which included corsets and huge dresses would have been infinitely worse.

The next day consisted of more job hunting. Finally, Becca was able to land a job as a maid at the Wyndham Hotel. She had to make up experience, but she was able to display the necessary skills. When she saw Steve again – because she had to believe they would be reunited – Becca was going to thank him a million times over for showing her how to neatly make a bed and fold laundry so perfectly. She was given a uniform and told to arrive promptly at four the following morning.

Becca dedicated the rest of her day to thinking about ways she might get home. She checked out the alley where she had appeared. She talked to the homeless people there, but found nothing out of the ordinary. She even asked two of them about being dead. They had no idea what she was talking about, which was sort of reassuring. Afterwards, Becca visited the New York Public Library. There was no record of the name "Thanos" or any myths about "Infinity Stones," which took a lot longer to figure out without computers. A librarian was able to get her books about time travel, all fictional of course. Becca also gathered books on Norse mythology on the off chance they contained some relevant clues. She read until the library closed, filled out a library card, and brought an armload of books back to the apartment.

The remainder of the week passed in a blur. Becca had never worked so hard in her life. Her shifts were long and involved everything from making up rooms to cleaning laundry to serving drinks at a private event. Her schedule changed around, so she could be working the day or overnight. Putting up with fussy customers sucked, but that much at least she'd experienced before. It was the way she was treated by men that was truly aggravating. Inevitably, she felt exhausted by the end of a shift. At that point, she returned to her apartment, fixed up something to eat, and read until she fell into a sleep littered with nightmares.

While Becca was polite to her coworkers, she tried not to talk to them too much. They soon left her alone. Although isolation had been the intended outcome, Becca couldn't help feeling depressed once she realized they were ignoring her. So maybe it was inevitable that she began thinking about Steve a lot. She wondered what he was doing, how he was feeling. She imagined being home with him and doing normal things. She thought about the Steve that was here, too. Had he made his first attempt to enlist yet? What art project was he working on today? And then she thought about Bucky. What would he be like before he the horrors of becoming the Winter Soldier? What was he up to? Becca hadn't dismissed the possibility this was all in her head, but she figured the imaginary Steve and Bucky would still being going through all the same things that she knew they'd done.

Thinking about Steve was fine. Seeing Steve again was such a bad idea. It was a stupid, terrible, bad idea. And Becca was doing it anyway.

She had been staring at a copy of _Armageddon 2419 A.D._ without being able to focus. The changes in her shift had thrown off her internal clock, and so Becca had slept for only about two hours before waking up. Despite being tired, she couldn't fall back asleep. This book couldn't hold her attention either. She glanced out the window. This was around the time Steve had found her outside his apartment. He had been so sweet, kind of taken aback by her interest in talking to him. It was a shame that no one paid him any attention. Becca had seen that resigned, false smile when she suggested they might see each other again someday. He didn't think they'd see each other again. He probably thought she'd forgotten all about him already, even though it had only been five days.

For some reason, Becca couldn't stand that Steve might think she'd forgotten about him. It made her anxious and guilty all at once. She had to let him know that she hadn't forgotten, but without leaving too much of an impression. After consideration, Becca decided the best idea was to bring him a small thank-you present. She left the apartment and walked toward the subway station, pondering what to buy, when she passed in front of a grocery store displaying fruits just inside the door frame. Her eyes landed on the box of apples, and she stopped as an idea struck her.

Snow was beginning to fall when Becca rode the bus to his neighborhood. In her hands she held a loaf of his favorite apple cake wrapped in newspaper. She knocked on his door and didn't have long to wait before it opened. Steve looked surprised to see her. As for Becca, she felt bit relieved to see him. He might be smaller and younger, but he was still Steve.

"Hey."

"Hello," greeted Steve.

Becca held the cake out to him when he glanced uncertainly at the package. "This is for you, just to thank you for all your help."

"Thanks." Steve took the cake. His eyebrows had furrowed, and he wore this slight frown that meant he was trying to figure something out.

Becca waited for a second, but when he didn't say anything, she felt awkward.

"Well, I guess I'll go. Um, thanks again. Okay. Bye." She turned to leave and had nearly reached the steps when Steve's voice made her pause.

"Wait a second." Becca looked back. Steve had stepped outside his apartment despite the light snowfall. When she met his gaze, he took another step towards her. "My landlord said that you were looking for me? That you had something you wanted to return?"

Oh shit. Becca scrambled for a good excuse. "I… Um… It's sort of a weird story… I was walking, and I had nowhere to go…" Thankfully an explanation came to her. "There were these two women gossiping about people who live around here. I was hoping they would mention someone who sounded like they might help me and when they talked about you, it seemed like you were someone who'd help."

Okay, it wasn't much of an explanation, but it was safer than the truth. As she continued talking, Becca grew more confident in her lie.

"They said you were nice, that you lived on your own, and then some other things that… weren't so kind."

While Becca would preferred not to tell Steve that people were saying bad stuff about him, she knew that people did and throwing in a little truth would help her case. As she'd thought, Steve glanced at his feet in resignation. However, putting him down set guilt on her shoulders like a weight, which prompted Becca to continue, "But I think some people get underestimated because they have a medical problem or because of their size or because they look like they're homeless. And I think that most people who are treated differently tend to be nicer because they know how much it means when someone's kind to them. So I made up an excuse and tracked you down. Sorry, I… I didn't want to say anything that would make you uncomfortable, and I thought if I told you the truth, you might not help me. But I won't bother you anymore."

For the second time, Becca made to leave, and for the second time, Steve stopped her. "Rebecca, I – This smells real good." He lifted the cake. "But I don't know if I can eat it all. Would you like some?"

Becca knew that she shouldn't accept, but he might be the last person she really talked to for who knew how long. Besides, Steve looked so timidly hopeful, like he wanted her to come in but braced himself for rejection. How was she supposed to say no? Just one slice of cake and then she'd stay away.

"Sure."

* * *

When Mr. Shea had come around about Rebecca, Steve had been confused. He liked to think that he was good at reading a person, and Rebecca had appeared sincerely distressed at the thought of parting with her rings. However, he knew there were good actresses out there, and she had treated him nice. Maybe too nice. She could have needed some idiot to help her sell stolen rings and help her figure out this city. He'd talked to Bucky about her, and Bucky had said Rebecca sounded like the strangest kind of grifter he'd ever heard of. So Steve remained uncertain.

Then, Rebecca had come back, looking cleaned up and offering him a gift. Steve wasn't sure if she was being sincere or she wanted more from him, so he waited to see what she'd do. It seemed Rebecca really did just want to give him the cake because she walked away, her already pink cheeks growing the deeper red of embarrassment. Steve didn't want her to leave like that, but he had to know why she had looked for him.

Initially, the pauses sounded like Rebecca was taking her time coming up with an excuse, but the more she talked, the more Steve found she made sense. He couldn't let someone who might think better of him than most leave. At least, not because she thought she was bothering him. Since Steve hadn't really expected her to accept his offer, he was pleasantly surprised when she did.

Steve led Rebecca into his apartment, rubbing the melting snow from his face as he shut the front door. He set down the cake and helped her out of her coat, hanging it on a rarely used hook next to his own coat. As he pulled out a chair for her, Steve saw the laundry that he'd laid out around the stove to dry. Muttering a flustered apology, he quickly gathered all the clothes together – making sure to grab his unmentionables _first –_ and dumped them into the washroom where they'd be out of sight.

Rebecca had one hand pressed to her mouth when he returned, but she couldn't hide the amusement in her eyes. Steve busied himself with the cake, resigned to being laughed at. Just because Rebecca had said people like him got underestimated didn't necessarily mean that she would treat him all that different.

"That was definitely the fastest picking-up-laundry time I've ever seen, right there. I think you're officially the world champion." Rebecca had lowered her hand, revealing a wide smile.

It didn't sound so much like she was laughing at him, but rather giving him a good-natured rib. Steve unwrapped the folded newspaper from around the cake, a dry remark springing instantly to mind.

"You should see me on a good day."

"Oh, I'm sure. Maybe you should turn it into a sport. I'm sure the matches would be riveting." Rebecca adopted a voice like the radio announcer of a baseball game. "He's got the shirts. Now he's onto – And that's four socks at once, and the crowd goes wild!" She grinned and Steve grinned along with her. "I'd watch it."

"I'll be sure to get you a front row ticket."

"You'd better. And a free popcorn."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve agreed, cutting two slices of cake and setting them on faded blue plates. "All the free popcorn you want."

"Oh, that is a dangerous thing to say to a woman who likes her snacks." Rebecca patted her belly. "Although I've got a feeling I'm going to be losing more weight, so maybe it'll be okay."

Steve wasn't about to comment on her weight, so he set a plate in front of her and kept his mouth shut. As he sat in front of his own plate, Steve realized that he had recognized the cake for what it was before even taking off the newspaper. The loaf smelled like the apple cake that Ma had made. He would have known the scent anywhere. On rare occasions, he still made one for himself. He cut off a piece with his fork and chewed. The cake tasted close to Ma's, too.

"Is it okay?" Rebecca asked, inspecting her slice. "I usually have a recipe to follow, but I had to do it from memory. And I'm used to different brands."

"It's good. Real good," Steve assured her. He stabbed another piece with his fork. "My mother used to make a cake like this."

Nodding, Rebecca pulled her plate closer. "Maybe we had the same recipe."

Seeing as Ma had said the recipe was a family one, Steve doubted it, but he said, "Maybe. Did your mother make this too?"

"Oh, no. My husband showed me."

Steve frowned, taken aback. It seemed unusual that her husband would bake, especially since he'd clearly had money. "Did your husband bake a lot?"

"No. He'll offer to help if I'm making something, but this is his go-to otherwise. Although…" Rebecca's smile softened. "I'm not one to go all-out on celebrating. Anniversaries, holidays – I like them, but I don't make a huge deal out of them. Except for birthdays. I don't know why, but I love birthdays. And he always bakes me a cake. Even when he was away on my birthday, mmm, about two years ago, a cake showed up." She laughed. "The people he was with, most of them had never made a birthday cake before. They tried to pitch in, but there were some very different ideas on decoration. I loved it, though. I think he knew I would, so that's why he didn't fix it."

As Rebecca had been selling her rings, Steve figured she must have lost her husband. If he'd died not too long ago that could explain why she spoke about him as though he were still alive. However, she had opened up a different possibility: that her husband could be away right now. He might not know if something had happened to their money. Or maybe he did know, but Rebecca was unaware he did. Or she could know. But since she seemed so happy while talking about her husband, Steve didn't want to ask. Seeing her cry once was more than enough. Besides, it wasn't his business.

"Sounds like it was quite the cake."

"It really was. It had this –" Rebecca froze for a moment in mid-gesture for what would have undoubtedly been an explanation of the cake decorations. Instead, she dropped her arms and cut off a piece of the cake slice in front of her. "Never mind. I shouldn't be rambling."

"That's all right." Steve quickly amended, "Not that I think you're rambling. Telling a story isn't really rambling. Well, it can be if – but –"

"Now who's rambling?" Rebecca laughed.

Steve turned his fork around, lips pressed determinedly together. He didn't mean to go on. It just sort of happened sometimes. Talking to Rebecca seemed easy for the most part, at least easier than talking to a lot of people since she didn't look at him like the others did. Usually he got one of three kinds of looks: one was expectant like he might keel over at any second, another was the patiently suffering smile of toleration, and finally there was the scornful gaze that marked him as a lesser man. When Rebecca looked at him, he didn't see any of that. His concern was accidently changing her opinion, so maybe she wouldn't like him.

"Sorry."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Steve, you don't have to apologize. It's just me." She grimaced, pushing the next bite of cake around her plate. "I mean, I'm not someone you need to worry about, okay? You're not gonna say the wrong thing."

"Okay," Steve agreed, although he still wasn't entirely convinced.

"Good. So." Rebecca speared the cake with renewed enthusiasm. "Now that that's out of the way, what'd you do today?"

Steve couldn't think of a single interesting thing he'd done. Mostly he'd been drawing for work, but most people equated artists with lazy good-for-nothings.

"I work for the WPA. They asked a couple of the illustrators to come up with sketches for the papers, so I've been working on some for _The Morning Telegraph_."

Apparently his work was interesting after all because Rebecca leaned eagerly forward and asked, "Do you still have the sketches?"

"Yeah. Would you like to see them?"

"I'd love to!"

Unused to such enthusiasm from relative strangers, Steve hopped to his feet and went to fetch his sketchbook. He flipped to the correct pages, eyeing them critically in the safety of him bedroom. He thought they'd turned out swell.

"It's these last two," Steve told Rebecca, setting the sketchbook beside her plate before sitting back down in his chair. He resumed eating cake while continuously glancing across at her for a reaction.

The WPA had requested the similar material from all of the illustrators regardless of the newspaper because everyone wanted art about the war. Steve had done one sketch of Pearl Harbor in which the American flag still stood untouched amongst the smoking wreckage. The other illustration was a cartoon of three soldiers – one Nazi, one Japanese, and one Italian – picking on the remainder of Europe, who was represented by a smaller and badly wounded soldier with his fists still up in an attempt to fight. An American soldier loomed behind the bullies, reaching out to tap Japan on the shoulder.

There were a number of other sketches that Steve had attempted – or in some cases completed – that day, but these were the two he thought would go over the best with _The Morning Telegraph_.

"I really like this one," commented Rebecca over the cartoon, much to Steve's relief. "I think America's going to need someone like him."

"I think we're going to need a lot like him."

"True." Rebecca flipped the page to the sketch of Pearl Harbor. "Are you thinking of signing up with the army?"

Steve was surprised to be asked. He doubted anyone would think him a good candidate for becoming a soldier. Even Bucky had shaken his head at the suggestion, though he seemed more exasperated than anything. Steve pictured the American soldier he'd drawn, a tall man with broad shoulders and the definition of muscle beneath his uniform. He looked nothing like that soldier, but he wanted to prove that he would fight just as hard. If all the other men were going to fight and lay down their lives, he should too.

"I am."

Rebecca nodded. "I'm sure they'll need you before this war's over." Had anyone else said the same, Steve would have thought they were being sarcastic, but Rebecca looked up at him sadly. Her smile had diminished to a grim line. "Wars are always awful, but I've got a feeling this one'll go down as the worst in history. A lot of people are going to get hurt, whether they make it home or not."

The Great War had been a hard war, but Steve conceded that Rebecca could be right. This war had appeared to have gotten a whole lot uglier in the news lately, and he suspected it would get even uglier before the fighting was over.

"We'll just have to fight hard, save as many as we can, and hope it doesn't take as long as the Great War."

"Mmm." Rebecca flipped back to the cartoon. She set a finger over the American soldier, her nail tapping the hand he held by his side. "I feel like he's missing something."

"Like what?" Steve questioned, surveying the figure to try and guess what he'd left out.

"I don't know."

"A gun?" He had considered weapons, but it wouldn't make sense for only one of the soldiers to have a weapon and too many would make the cartoon cluttered.

"No. I think he can use a gun, but he prefers something that's better for protecting people."

Rebecca's smile had returned along with the same glimmer in her eyes as when she'd mentioned having a famous husband. As he had then, Steve felt like she was teasing him, but he didn't know why. However, he responded with the usual dry humor that teasing brought out in him.

"Well, I'd ask him what that is, but he is a cartoon. So I don't know if he can really 'prefer' anything."

Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "I see you took my parting keep-up-the-sass comment to heart. As well you should since I'm obviously always right about everything ever."

"That must be nice," chuckled Steve.

"It is." Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, "But don't go spreading this around or my arch-nemeses might catch up with me."

"And who are your arch-nemeses?"

"The people who are never right, of course: the weather forecasters."

Steve felt as though he had missed the punch line of a joke. "The weather forecasters?"

"Yeah. You know, because they're –" Rebecca's eyes widened, and then she was the one who appeared worried. "Oh, do you not – Of course you don't. Sorry, I thought – but it doesn't matter."

"All right," said Steve, growing more confused by the second. "Uh, who are the weather forecasters?"

After hesitantly chewing on the corner of her lip, Rebecca explained, "Where I come from, there are people who try to predict the weather for the week. They've been getting better, but usually it's hit-and-miss."

"Uh huh." Although he'd never heard of weather forecasters, Steve figured they must be like the people on farms who attempted to figure out the weather. He didn't know where Rebecca was from, so maybe she came from a place with lots of farmland. "That doesn't sound like it'd be too accurate."

"Not so much, no."

A moment of silence passed.

Rebecca had smeared lipstick while nibbling on her lip, the red marking a few of her front teeth. Not wanting anyone notice or say something rude later, Steve prompted, "Just so you know, your lipstick smeared a little."

"Did it? Fuck." Steve was so startled to hear her curse that he recoiled slightly. "Thanks for telling me. I'm just going to borrow your bathroom for a sec."

Rebecca got up from the table, and Steve gazed at the bathroom door wonderingly as it shut between them. Only in rare instances had he heard a woman swear before. He wouldn't have expected Rebecca to be the cursing type. He wasn't sure whether he should be disapproving or intrigued. If he were honest, he felt a little of both.

While she was cleaning up, Steve finished his slice of cake. He wrapped the rest in the newspaper, put it in the fridge, and set about washing his plate.

"Sorry about that. I'm still getting used to this lipstick," Rebecca declared when she returned. She sat back at the table. "So, um, anyways, I'd gladly trade my always-rightness talent for your artistic talent." She held up his sketchbook. "Do you mind if I look through the rest of this?"

Glad for any excuse to put the uncomfortable moment aside, Steve said, "No. Go ahead."

As Rebecca flipped through his sketchbook, she complimented a number of the sketches and used a couple of terms that showed at least some knowledge of art. She asked questions about a lot of the cartoons, which Steve gave the impression that she hadn't been paying attention to the news much in the past weeks. Between talking about his work, Steve asked Rebecca about herself, too. Or rather, he did at first, but it became quickly apparent that she had no desire to discuss anything to do with herself. With other topics, she would talk easily and make jokes. Her responses to personal subjects were short and vague. This only made Steve more curious about her, but he stopped asking and let the conversation drift.

When Rebecca glanced at a clock and gasped, "Oh, god. I have to go," Steve felt a pang of disappointment. He had been enjoying the company, but of course, she couldn't stay forever. Nearly two and a half hours had already come and gone without his noticing. He got her coat from its hook.

"Sorry to run out on you like this," Rebecca apologized. She shrugged the coat over her shoulders. "But I don't want to show up late for work since I'm new, and I've got to get changed first."

One of the few scraps of information Rebecca had shared was that she'd gotten a job at a hotel, so Steve wasn't taken aback by the late hour.

"I'll walk you to the subway," he offered. "Or the bus or the trolley. Whatever you're taking."

"That's nice of you, but I've really got to dash." Rebecca grasped his hand, and they shook. "Thank you so much for having me over. It's been great."

"Yeah. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come back."

"Will do."

The snow was falling more thickly when Steve opened the door. Her rapid stride to the stairs made him concerned. He hoped Rebecca didn't actually plan on running.

"Careful where you step," Steve warned. "The sidewalks can get real slick. And the stairs have ice sometimes."

"Okay, thanks," Rebecca called without turning around.

Once she had descended out of sight, Steve closed the door. He dropped her dish into the skin and picked up his sketchbook, intending to put it back in his room. But this didn't feel right. It was late, dark, and snowing. Rebecca was still fairly new to New York. Steve had grabbed his coat before even making the conscious decision to go after her.

Much to his surprise, Rebecca was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Snow had already gathered in her hair, scattered across the curls like the freckles on her cheeks.

"Hey," she greeted with a smile, setting off as soon as his foot touched the bottom step. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

"You – you knew I was coming?" Steve asked, puzzled.

Rebecca shrugged. "I thought you might, so I figured I'd wait a few seconds just in case. Didn't want to you slip chasing after me. I hear these sidewalks can get slick."

Her answer did nothing to dispel Steve's confusion. "If you thought I'd come, why didn't you just say 'yes' when I offered to walk with you?"

"Well, 'cause that's not how this works," Rebecca explained matter-of-factly. "I have to say I can do something on my own. Then, I go to do it to prove I can. Then, you totally ignore me because you're just as stubborn as I am. Then, I act frustrated because I am a little, but mostly I think it's sweet." Her voice lowered to a regretful tone. "Only I don't tell you I think it's sweet because I'm afraid you'll try to help too much. I should, though. I should've –" She bit her bottom lip and shook her head as if getting rid of an unwanted thought. "Rambling again. I swear I don't usually. It's been a long week."

"We all have those," Steve assured her, responding to the one part of what she'd said that made sense. He continued to be baffled over the rest.

They walked in silence for a block, the only sound the crunch of their feet in the layer of snow coating the ground. Rebecca's high spirits had visibly dampened, and Steve didn't intend to leave her that way. She seemed to respond to sardonic humor, so he figured he'd give that a try.

"So is this the part where you're frustrated? Because silence isn't so bad." The corner of her mouth quirked up, so Steve went on, "I'm just asking 'cause if you start yelling the force might knock me over. You might not have noticed, but I'm not too sturdy."

Rebecca laughed. "You know what? We're going to skip the frustration part tonight. Just for tonight, though."

"That's generous of you."

"I do what I can."

The remainder of the walk went by without any further problems, and Rebecca's bus turned onto the street just as they reached the bus stop. Since she mentioned getting changed before work, Steve surmised that she must have gotten a room in another part of Brooklyn based on this bus she was taking. He might see her again then. Or maybe now that she had thanked him for helping her the day they'd met, she would pass out of his life.

"Have a good night," said Steve when the bus opened its doors in front of them and people began filing off and on.

"You too. And good luck with the army." Rebecca touched his arm, her gaze sharpening with intensity. "Remember that you can't save everyone. You might make mistakes or wish you'd done things differently, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve something better."

Before Steve could think of how to respond, Rebecca pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. He was as unprepared for the gesture as he had been the last time, doubly so because of the shock of warmth against his cold cheek.

Rebecca boarded the bus and sat next to a window near the back. She winked at him, but despite the smile on her face, Steve thought she looked sad. He wondered why, staring after the bus as it drove away. But even as he walked home alone wondering, he suspected the answers could only be found in the mystery of Rebecca's past.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So Steve and Becca meet yet again. I think time travel makes for this interesting conundrum in which Becca knows she can't tell Steve specific things, but the more mysterious and puzzling she is, the more Steve is intrigued by her. Also, shadows of _Flying High, Falling Hard_ in this chapter. An addictive personality doesn't extend exclusively to narcotics.**

 **Thanks for the support, dears. See you soon!**

 **(N: Thank you! They'll be meeting a number of times, and hopefully it'll continue to interesting.)**


	4. I'll Be Home For Christmas

The streets were nearly empty as Steve walked home. In his neighborhood where the majority was Irish-Catholic, people spent Christmas Eve with their families. Steve had spent his going to evening Mass and having dinner with the Barnes family, and he had the full stomach to prove it as well as a steaming plate of food. He'd been invited to lunch on Christmas Day both years since Ma had died, so he would return the plate then. Last year, he had tried to decline, but Bucky had shown up with his three younger sisters. Steve couldn't turn them down, especially since they all but dragged him out the door. To avoid the fuss, he had simply accepted this year.

Tomorrow morning, he would bake an apple cake to bring for lunch. As Steve went over the recipe in his head, double-checking that he had remembered to buy all the ingredients, he was reminded of Rebecca. He hadn't seen her since she had visited over a week ago. She would likely be spending Christmas with the people who owned the apartment she was living in.

Because he was thinking about her, Steve was certain he mistook the woman coming down the street towards him for Rebecca. A double take reassured him that it was, in fact, Rebecca. Her head was bowed, shoulders hunched to ward off the cold. As they were close to his apartment, she might have come to see him. He had told her to come back if she ever needed anything. In any case, she was now heading towards the bus stop.

"Hello, Rebecca," called Steve, once she was close enough that he wouldn't be shouting at her. "Merry –" He choked off the rest as Rebecca looked up at him.

Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Tears glinted on her pink cheeks, and more rolled down as she blinked. Her shoulders curved inwards even further, a protective movement but not from the cold as he'd thought.

Rebecca wiped the back of her hand across her nose and sniffed. "Merry Christmas, Steve," she mumbled, passing right by him.

However, Steve couldn't let walk away her in tears. He turned around and took two quick steps to catch up.

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

Steve frowned, as she was clearly not the least bit fine. Balancing the plate in one hand, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. He folded the fabric over to a clean side and offered it to her.

After hesitating a second, Rebecca accepted the handkerchief with a quiet, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Steve replied. "Is there anything else I can do?" If she'd rather not tell him what was making her cry, she didn't have to. But that didn't mean he couldn't help.

Rebecca shook her head as she blew her nose. "You've already done too much." In a murmur almost too soft to make out, she added, "And I shouldn't have come back."

So she _had_ come to see him. It seemed to Steve that Rebecca was concerned about asking for more help from him. He didn't think walking her to a jewelry store and answering some question had been all that much. Most important though was what Rebecca hadn't said. She hadn't said there was nothing he could do.

"Why did you come?"

"Because –" Rebecca used his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes before they fell. "Because I'm weak, apparently."

"I don't think that's true."

"You barely know me," Rebecca sighed.

"Well, no, but… Well…"

Steve didn't really know how to explain why he thought she wasn't weak. It was the confidence he had seen in her. Her determination when she had spoken to the jeweler despite the condescending look he'd give her. How she had parted with her engagement ring even though that ring meant a lot. She had come to a strange city on her own, found a place to live, gotten a job.

Instead, he offered, "Take it from someone who's been called 'weak' all their life, you're not."

"You're not either," stated Rebecca at once, glancing with him with the same fierceness as when she'd left him at the bus stop. She quickly looked away. "So where's the plate from? Or were you going to drop it off?"

Taken aback by the abrupt burst of intensity, Steve was momentarily surprised to find he was carrying a plate of food. "Uh, my friend Bucky, his family invited me to dinner. His mother worries I don't eat enough."

"Must be a close friend if you're going there on Christmas Eve."

"Yeah, we've been friends a long time. Bucky's…" Steve knew that if he tried to describe Bucky, he wouldn't shut up for a while. It was probably for the best to be brief. "…swell."

"I'm sure he is," said Rebecca agreeably, and Steve was glad to see her smile again, even if it was a small one.

"What about the people you're staying with? Are they doing anything for Christmas?" Immediately, Steve realized he had asked the wrong questions because Rebecca's expression fell again.

"They went to visit their family until tomorrow night."

Which meant that Rebecca had been left alone for the holiday. Steve could remember how he'd felt on his first Christmas without Ma, sitting by himself until the Bucky had come for him. It hadn't been a good feeling. Maybe she had just needed to see someone she knew. Sitting with Bucky and his family had been a welcome distraction. Steve felt guilty that he hadn't been home for her, and to think that might have made her cry made him feel even worse. He had to do something to make it up to her.

"What about breakfast tomorrow?" he suggested, since that was a time usually spent with family.

Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "Well, if they're gone until tomorrow night I assume they won't be dropping by for breakfast."

"No, I meant would you want to have breakfast tomorrow? With me?" As Rebecca stared at him, Steve went on, "I thought maybe since you – since it's Christmas and all –"

"I have work 'til nine tomorrow morning," Rebecca interrupted.

Lunch was at noon. Steve didn't think that Bucky or any of the Barnes would be offended if he didn't come because he had company. For that matter, he didn't think they'd mind if he brought Rebecca with him either, but neither option seemed polite. If Rebecca had flatly declined, Steve wouldn't have made a further suggestion, but since she was working…

"Dinner?"

Rebecca shook her head. "I can't do dinner either. I said I could take a second shift since I didn't have anywhere to be, so I'll have to sleep between shifts. Sorry. I appreciate you asking."

As long as she was keeping busy, Steve figured she might not be so sad. "It's all right." He shrugged. "It wouldn't be anything special."

After a deep sigh, Rebecca asked, "Why would you say it like that?"

"I – I'm sorry?"

Rebecca rolled her eyes upwards as though seeking assistance from a higher power. "How about brunch?"

"You should sleep," Steve insisted, so that she wouldn't feel obligated to share a meal with him.

"I'll need to eat first anyway. I couldn't stay long, of course, but it'd be nice. If that's okay?"

"Sure. Yeah."

"Around ten-thirty?"

"That's fine."

"Okay. I'll bring…" Rebecca frowned thoughtfully. "Not a lot in the fridge. I don't suppose grocery stores around here will be open tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it," Steve said, even though he didn't have much food himself.

"But I've got to bring _something_." Rebecca snapped her fingers. "Got it. I'll bring a drink. It'll be kinda Christmas-y."

"Eggnog?" Steve guessed. It was the only Christmas drink he could think of, but Rebecca shook her head.

"Much better than eggnog."

A beat of silence told him that Rebecca was keeping the drink a surprise.

"All right," said Steve, though still curious what she had in mind. "I'll cook. And I'll try to make it 'Christmas-y,' too."

Rebecca grinned. "Perfect."

They turned the corner onto the street with the bus stop. This would likely be the last bus of the night. Even during regular hours, the bus didn't come around this neighborhood too frequently. Steve would have thought Rebecca might have missed the bus all together, but there were four men waiting at the stop. None of them looked too friendly, and Steve instinctively inched a little closer to Rebecca.

"Your friend Bucky," said Rebecca when they stopped. "Tell me about him."

Unsure of where to start, Steve asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you think is important."

There was a whole lot about Bucky that Steve thought was important. He had to ponder for a moment before speaking.

"Well, I guess the first thing you should know is that Bucky's a good guy, but sometimes, he's also a jerk."

"Okay," Rebecca laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

For all his original hesitations, Steve ended up talking about Bucky until the bus came. Mostly he told stories – about times together at school, about Bucky pulling him out of scraps, about how Bucky visited when he got real sick. For her part, Rebecca seemed genuinely interested. She nodded and asked questions. Those few comments she made gave Steve the impression he was giving her a good idea of what Bucky was like.

Towards the end, shortly before the bus pulled up, Steve began to wonder if he should change subjects. Rebecca continued to smile, but her expression had taken on a trace of sadness. If he had known exactly what he was saying to make her look that way – or if it was him at all – Steve would have stopped. But when he asked if she was all right, she nodded and asked another question about Bucky.

"Thanks for waiting with me," said Rebecca as the bus doors opened.

"You're welcome." Steve shifted the now-cold plate of food so he could shake her hand. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, you will. I'm obviously the best Christmas present you're going to get."

"I don't know. Last year, Bucky's mother got me a real nice tie."

"Mmm. That'll be hard to beat, but I'll do my best." Her lips on his cheek were still a surprise, though not quite as much of a shock. "Good night."

"Good night."

The bus doors shut behind Rebecca as soon as she boarded. She waved to him through a window, and Steve waved back. He now had at least two things to cook, which meant getting started tonight. However, he didn't mind. Between seeing Rebecca and seeing Bucky, Steve was looking forward to tomorrow.

* * *

By ten o'clock the following morning, Becca was seriously regretting her decision to have brunch with Steve.

First off, she was exhausted. After arriving back at the apartment, she had set about making hot chocolate, knowing it would be the only available time. The beverage required half of the Hersey's chocolate bar she had bought for herself, which had been quite the hassle to track down in the first place since – according to one shop owner – they were going towards the troops. But hey, a girl needed her chocolate. With the hot chocolate poured into an empty milk bottle and put in the fridge, Becca had changed and hurried off to work. She had spent most of the night doing laundry and then running up and down in the morning with breakfast trays and other requested items. Each glimpse of a happy family or couple spending Christmas together only made her feel more tired, which brought her around to the second reason for regret.

Visiting Steve again was a dangerous mistake. Each time they saw each other it became more likely that he would recognize her face in the future. She should never have gone back in the first place.

It was just that… Well, the Goulds had wished her a Merry Christmas and left her alone in their apartment. Becca had sat in her room, trying to bury herself in _Looking Backwards 2000-1887,_ but all she could hear was the sound of Christmas music on the radio and the happy murmurings of the family next-door through the walls. Just over two weeks had passed since she had arrived. She often found new things to remind her of how out of place she was. Yet, never had she felt as alone as in that moment.

And suddenly she couldn't stand it anymore, so she fled from the apartment, desperate for the one shred of home she had: Steve. When he hadn't answered the door, she sat down despite the snow on the ground and sobbed until she could barely breathe. Then, she'd had a bit of a panic attack over the possibility of never getting home and almost passed out. Feeling pathetic and sick, she had left, only to run into Steve on her way to the bus. And he made her feel better. That's why she was visiting him. Well, and he'd said that he wasn't anything special. Okay, he'd stated _eating_ with him wouldn't be anything special, but the way he said it sounded mildly self-deprecating. She knew that in the future, feeling the need to prove himself was something that Steve would still be struggling with. If she could help him a little, she wanted to do what she could.

This was it, though. One more visit and then never again. For real this time.

Becca hopped out of the shower and toweled off. She dried her hair as best as she could with a towel – Forties hair dryers were much less effective – and pinned it up so the damp strands wouldn't be freezing against her neck. She got dressed with minimal cursing over attaching her garters and the pouch for her phone. The hot chocolate had been reheating on the stove while she was in the shower and was suitably hot enough to pour back into the glass bottle. The heat proved to be a pleasant bonus since the bus was nearly as frigid as the outside air. She wrapped the bottle in Steve's handkerchief, which she'd washed and left to dry overnight, and kept the bundle pressed to her chest until she reached his apartment.

"Hi!" she greeted when Steve opened the door, mustering up as much cheerfulness as she could. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

Steve stood aside to let her past, and Becca gratefully stepped out of the cold wind. She shrugged off her coat, feeling the weight shift as Steve helped her out of it. A small gesture, but familiar and comforting. Although, she almost wished she'd kept the coat on. The apartment was rather chilly, spurring Becca towards the oven.

"Need help with anything?"

"Nah, it's almost done," said Steve, as he dropped two slices of bread into a pan that smelled of bacon grease. "But thank you."

Another pan had potato hash browning on one side and two eggs frying on the other. As it turned out, eggs were a rarity for breakfast. Mrs. Gould's eyes had practically popped out of her head when Becca had used four in an omelet. So despite Steve's protest that brunch wouldn't be special, it seemed like he was trying with the little he had available.

"Looks good," Becca complimented.

"Thanks. I was thinking of making a big, fancy meal." Steve flipped over the bread with a fork. "But I didn't want my cooking to look so impressive you wouldn't want to eat it."

"That's very considerate. And most appreciated because I am definitely hungry."

Becca opened the cabinet where she'd seen him take plates out of last time she'd visited. She set two plates beside the oven for Steve to put the food on. The milk bottle was just warm enough that she didn't think that hot chocolate would need another reheat, so she poured the contents into mugs.

"Hot chocolate?" Steve surmised.

"Mhmm."

"I haven't had that in a real long time."

"Yeah?" said Becca, even though she already knew that. One of the reasons she decided to make hot chocolate was the memory of being utterly dismayed at future Steve telling her the very same thing.

Steve nodded. "Not since I was a kid."

"Well, Christmas was always more exciting as a kid." Becca opened the drawer next to the sink to get out forks and knives. "So maybe we can get a bit of that back. My gift to you." She brought the silverware and mugs over to the table. "It might not be a useful present in the long run, but it is tasty."

"Then I guess I can't complain."

"Good 'cause, let me tell you, finding this chocolate bar was like –" Becca managed to catch herself before making a _Willy Wonka_ reference. "– like a treasure hunt."

"A treasure hunt, huh?" Steve began transferring the food from the pans onto their plates. "Sounds exciting."

"Oh, it was." Settling into a chair, Becca concocted an adventure out of what would have been a very boring story. "I battled pirates on the Hudson, got advice from a crone in Queens, escaped the natives on 45th and Madison, outwitted the sorcerer on Park, and took the chocolate right from under the nose of the keeper of Miller's Candy Emporium. After paying him, of course."

"Of course." With a smile right on the verge of laughter, Steve set a plate in front of her. "After all that effort, maybe I should've gone with the fancy cooking."

The smell of food was making Becca even hungrier. "Nope. This is just fine."

Politely, Becca waited until Steve sat down before moving to pick up her fork. She stopped when he folded his hands. Steve had never said a prayer before eating at home, and it was a sharp reminder that she wasn't really with him. The fact stung as much as his helping with her coat had comforted. She wasn't so sure which was better for her, to be on her own or around this person who was both Steve and not. At least, not _her_ Steve. Nevertheless, Becca folded her hands.

"Do you want to say grace?" Steve offered.

"Um." Oh boy. Becca hadn't even heard grace in years. She considered saying she was an atheist – Steve was progressive enough that she didn't think it'd be a problem – but she needed to start creating some differences between this self and her future self. "Sure."

Pulling on memories of graces said over friends' dinner tables, Becca said, "Lord, we thank you for this food and for a beautiful Christmas day. Um, please watch over our troops and everyone who'll need your strength during this war. And…" She didn't believe in God, but praying couldn't hurt. "And please help those who need to find their way home. Amen."

Steve echoed, "Amen."

No portal opened to take her back nor did she wake up from a dream. So much for a miracle. Becca used her fork to put the egg on top of her toast. The food might taste kind of bland in this century, but with an empty stomach, she thought it wasn't half bad.

"So you seem to be learning your way around," observed Steve.

"Hmm?" hummed Becca through a mouthful.

"You knew a bunch of street names."

"Mmm." Becca swallowed and lied, "When I'm not working, I've been walking. Figured I should get to know the city I'm living in."

"You liking it here?"

No. Becca missed modern conveniences. She missed being able to look things up on her phone whenever she wanted. And having a TV to watch movies on. And long, hot showers. And pants. Plus, the blatant sexism was mildly sickening, as was the racism. She would also like her job back. Her family and friends too, but that went without saying.

"It's all right."

Before she could change the subject, Steve asked, "Where were you living before?"

"Montana." Becca had picked that state for her back-story because it wasn't a place she thought a lot of people around here would have been to. Also, she had visited a cousin there once, and they didn't seem to have much of a recognizable accent.

Steve lowered his fork, looking surprised. "That's a long way."

"A lot of people around here seem to be from Ireland. That's farther," Becca pointed out in an effort to put the focus back on him. "Doesn't sound like you have an accent, but maybe your parents?"

"They were from Ireland, and I know people come from all over, but… I just thought you were from somewhere closer is all. Montana, that's still a lot of traveling to do on your own."

"Yeah…" Suddenly, Becca wasn't feeling so hungry. Just more tired. "Well, thankfully I can take care of myself. Except when I needed a teeny bit of help from someone." She managed a weak smile, which quickly diminished when she lifted the mug of hot chocolate to her lips. Even the chocolate didn't taste as good.

"Maybe I can be more helpful. Where have you been walking?"

Becca could read the concern in Steve's face over the rim of her mug. He knew talking about where she'd come from had been painful, even if he didn't know exactly why. This was one good thing about not talking with her Steve, she supposed. Instead of asking about why she was upset, he was changing the subject. And Becca was plenty happy to latch onto the new topic.

"I've just been wandering around mostly, so I could use a New Yorker's perspective. What do you think is worth seeing?"

As they ate, Steve told her about all the places she could visit. Some were familiar spots like the Statue of Liberty and the Museum of Modern Art. Others were familiar, but under different names like the "Penn Zone" being the popular tourist area around near the Empire State Building. Penn Station itself was something Becca figured she should actually walk by, since it was a fairly famous landmark that no longer existed in the future. Although, what interested her most were the non-tourist spots Steve talked about. The restaurants, tiny art galleries, and quiet parks.

And the movie theaters!

Difficult as it was, Becca stifled her enthusiasm about those in the hopes of creating more of a cover. It was too bad. She would have loved to talk about one of her favorite things with someone. Then again, she couldn't have talked about most of the movies she'd seen, so maybe it was better she'd kept her mouth shut. But she did pay close attention to the names of the theaters he mentioned. Seeing one movie couldn't hurt. She hadn't given up on trying to find a way home, but sometimes trying to read through another book that was unlikely to be any help was so… depressing.

"I think you've officially planned at least a month's worth of sightseeing for me," said Becca, drying off a plate. She'd had to insist before Steve let her help with the dishes.

"Only a month?" Steve waited until she'd put the plate away to hand her a wet pan. "Guess I should have talked faster. I was trying to get in at least two month's worth."

"Oh god, no. I think a month is plenty."

Hopefully she wouldn't be here in a month. Becca didn't even want to be in the Forties or whatever for another minute. The idea of being stuck for three additional weeks made the food churn unpleasantly in her stomach. She was trying to take everything day by day and not think ahead. Her sigh turned into a yawn, which Becca stifled against the back of one hand.

Even so, Steve must have noticed because he said, "I need the rest for later. No sense in washing it twice." He rubbed his hands on his pants with a feigned casualness that meant he was lying. Strangely, Becca didn't feel the urge to argue. "You should probably go and get some sleep before your next shift."

"Yeah."

Becca picked up the milk bottle, now chocolate free. She crossed the kitchen to get her coat, although not before Steve got there to hold out the coat for her. As it would no longer be a source of heat, she tucked the bottle up a sleeve so she wouldn't have to keep her hands out in the cold.

"Thanks for inviting me over," Becca said while Steve pulled on his own coat. "Sorry I can't stay for longer."

Steve opened the door, swiping something off a shelf and shoving it into a pocket. "It's all right. I suppose sleep is more important."

"I suppose."

They stepped out onto the landing. The sun was high and there wasn't a cloud in sight, but the air felt no less brisk. Becca pressed her hands deeper into her pockets. And to think it was only going to get colder. She should invest in a pair of gloves.

Part way down the stairs, they came across an elderly woman returning to her apartment. The frown she wore looked like it had been in place for several years, and her eyes could only be described as beady. It didn't even seem like she had irises, just huge black pupils which regarded them suspiciously.

"Good morning, Mrs. Cahill," Steve greeted politely. "Merry Christmas."

Mrs. Cahill's frown twitched as though Steve had said something vulgar. "Good mornin', Mr. Rogers," she replied before quickly disappearing into her apartment with a final disapproving glance at the pair of them.

"Yikes." Becca lifted an eyebrow and continued their descent. "I take it she's not a Christmas person?"

Steve shrugged. "I think she likes Christmas fine. It's me she's not so fond of."

"Why? What'd you do?"

"Became an artist."

"Of course," Becca snorted. Some people. "How dare you. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I am," Steve assured her with a smile. "Deeply."

They reached the sidewalk, which was fairly busy. A lot of children ran about with new toys. At least, the toys were new to them as presents. The state of the toys seemed secondhand in many cases. Those who didn't have anything to play with seemed just as content to make snowballs or run around. For all her mother's promises that the desire would pop up after marriage, Becca still didn't feel any need to have kids. Ally had her first kid this year however, and she wondered what Aiden would be getting for Christmas. She had ordered him a quilt with designs from a bunch of classic movies. Would Steve bring it over? Would there even be a Steve to bring it? Or was he gone? Were they all gone?

"Hey, uh, while we're on the subject."

Becca dragged her attention back to Steve, who was fiddling with a pocket. "What subject?"

"Me being an artist." Steve held out a folded-up piece of paper. "This is for you."

On instinct, Becca took the paper from him. 'To Rebecca' had been printed in a corner.

"I didn't bring anything for you," she murmured, feeling like she should give him something in exchange. The hot chocolate hadn't really been so much of a gift since he had cooked.

But Steve shrugged a shoulder. "It's not much. You seemed to like it, and otherwise it'd just be sitting in my sketchbook."

Becca unfolded the paper to reveal one of the sketches she had admired. The sketch depicted one of the public parks. She couldn't even remember which one he'd said it was, but there was something about the sketch that she'd found peaceful. Maybe because a park still looked like a park even with most of a century in between. Only it didn't make her feel peaceful now. Instead, Becca felt sadness like a physical ache in her chest.

Without fail, her Steve always brought back a sketch for her whenever he was away. He'd been doing that since his very first mission. She kept them in albums. While Becca teased him that one day she'd sell them for millions, she liked to bring them out when he was gone on the long missions. They were a reminder of all the time he'd spent thinking of her.

As Becca gazed at this sketch, her lower lip began to tremble. The paper shook slightly in her hands. Even her breath got wobbly.

"I've upset you again," sighed Steve, looking frustrated with himself.

"No, no." Becca folded the sketch along the creases, certain if she gazed at it any longer there would be tears. She could already feel them building up in the corners of her eyes. Plus, she should be looking where she was walking. "You didn't upset me. It's a wonderful present. Thank you."

Steve opened his mouth, shut it. Tension ran along his jaw line. The one thing that was absolutely clear was that he hadn't believed her. Becca took a breath.

"It's not your fault that I'm like this. I'm… I'm having a rough time and… I don't think I'm coping very well."

As a matter of fact, Becca knew she wasn't coping in a way that was healthy. She should be spending lots of time around friends and be talking to someone trustworthy about what she was experiencing. Those were two methods she had learned in counseling four years back which had really helped. However, there was no way she could do either of those things now. This was the past, probably. Friendships and information were dangerous. They could change everything.

After studying her a moment, Steve said, "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Becca shook her head. "I don't even know if I should answer."

"Why?"

"Because last time I said 'no' and yet somehow we ended up having brunch."

"Doesn't look like it helped." Steve moved out of the way to allow a family past. "Although, I wasn't the one who suggested brunch."

"Not technically."

"Not literally either."

Although Becca narrowed her eyes at him, the corner of her mouth lifted. "Hush yourself."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve agreed, grinning.

It was a close thing, but Becca refrained from giving him a habitual, gentle nudge for his smart mouth and the shit-eating grin that inevitably followed. She liked it, though. Always had. And she was feeling a bit better. Still tired and achy and generally down, but better.

"Brunch helped a little," she allowed, so Steve wouldn't think it'd been a wasted effort. Besides, it was true in part. Brunch had been a distraction on a day when doubtless she would have been a complete wreck if left at the Gould's apartment on her own.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We could do it again sometime, if you wanted."

That would not be a good idea. Becca had seen Steve too much already. He would likely remember her face at this point or, at the very least, find her face familiar. Unless he'd maybe think she was a relative… No. Even if that's what he thought, she would be altering his life. But altering what? His only friend was Bucky, and it's not like she'd get in the way of that. He didn't date anyone. She had encouraged him about joining the army. As long as Steve was on a double date with Bucky at that big science expo where he'd been recruited, he'd go off and become Captain America like he was meant to be. So really… But the butterfly effect. Even the smallest things could alter the course of history. Unless this was in her head, in which case she wasn't altering anything. Ugh, why did this have to be so complicated?

"It's all right if you don't want to," Steve continued, at which point Becca realized there had been a long, awkward pause.

She had to turn him down, but not in a way that made it seem like she didn't want to be around him.

"It's just… Aren't there things you'd rather be doing that hanging around a woman my age? Isn't it improper or something?" Becca was fairly sure there was some double standard about young men being around older women, and there was gap of about eight years between them.

"I don't think brunch can be 'improper.' And I won't ask, but you sure don't look old enough to be, well, old. And even if you were…" Steve held up his hands in a gesture that clearly stated that he didn't care. "I like talking with you."

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. "And I like talking to you, but I'd hate to think some nosy neighbors might start gossiping."

Becca knew that was a futile tactic even before Steve replied. She didn't know why she'd bothered.

Steve's expression hardened. "They can say what they want, but if they say it around me, then I'll have something to say back."

Great. Becca had heard several times from future Bucky about how often Steve got into fights. She didn't want him picking those fights because of her. Come on. She'd been with Steve for over four years. She could get through to him.

"Maybe I don't handle gossip well."

It was like poking a hole in a balloon. Steve deflated, all the righteous fury seeping away. "Oh. I wouldn't to make things worse for you."

"I know."

"If people did talk, it'd stay around here. You probably wouldn't even hear anything. And I don't think it'd follow you home. It's all Brooklyn, but people tend to keep to their neighborhoods."

Alarmed, Becca asked, "How do you know I'm living in Brooklyn?"

"The bus you take." Steve pointed in the direction they were walking. "The subway's close enough if that's what you needed. You don't walk either, so you're not too close. I figured you must be taking the bus to a different part. Unless you're not sure of the way yet?"

Okay, no need to panic. The bus made a number of stops. Steve didn't know exactly where she lived, so he wouldn't show up to check on her.

"No, it's, uh, I'm living in a different part," Becca admitted. "The rent's cheaper than in Manhattan."

"Yeah, I believe it." After a moment of silence, Steve pushed on. "If you're not comfortable, I'm not trying –"

"You know what? Fuck it." Becca ignored the glares that pronouncement got from the people passing by. She felt a headache coming on, and she wasn't going to fight this anymore today. Maybe the universe wanted them to have brunch again. "Let's do this again."

Steve blinked, apparently caught in a momentary daze over her abrupt change of heart. Or maybe it was the swearing. "I didn't mean to push you –"

"You didn't," interrupted Becca. "How about lunch next Sunday?" That was a whole eight days away. She could make sure she wasn't scheduled for that shift. If she was even still here.

"Sunday is fine."

"Noon?"

"All right."

"I'll bring the food."

"I can make –"

"Nope. My turn."

"You sure?"

"Yup."

"Cause I don't think you seem sure."

Becca was going to reassure him when she noticed the amusement in his eyes. He was teasing her.

"Listen, you better watch it or I might not grace you with my presence. And I know how terrible that would be for you."

"Devastating."

This time Becca gave him a nudge with her elbow before she even had the chance to think what she was doing. It was weird. She had grown so used to pressing near his hip, and this landed near his shoulder. Also, she was used to him being more… solid. Steve stumbled a step, mouth dropping open in surprise.

Blushing, Becca apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to push you that hard. It's just this thing that we – I do. When some people are cheeky."

"Apology accepted," Steve replied, rubbing below his shoulder. "Gee, and that was only an elbow. I bet you have a mean right hook."

"It's pretty decent." Steve threw her a questioning look, eyebrows pinched together, but Becca only smiled. Best not to go into detail. She hadn't meant to even let out that much. "So what are you doing with the rest of your Christmas?"

The remainder of the walk passed by quickly enough, and the bus came shortly after. Shaking Steve's hand felt so formal, but a hug seemed too much. However, Becca couldn't help but give him a kiss on the cheek. She wasn't even sure exactly why, but it felt like she had to give him that kiss goodbye. He was looking a little less surprised each time.

Becca waved to him through the window and settled down in her seat. The sketch had been forgotten in her hands, but now she opened it again. Each artist had their own particular style, and she figured she would recognize Steve's work anywhere. She traced a finger across one of the trees. Well, she had liked to look at his sketches when he was far away, and where was farther than a whole different time?

By the time the bus reached her stop, Becca was crying.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Nothing like writing about Christmas in July. On a more serious note, I do feel like there would be few thing harder in Becca's situation than spending a holiday like Christmas alone. Luckily, she didn't have to.**

 **Thanks for your support everyone! There's going to be another familiar face next chapter, so get excited.**

 **(N: Thank you! Ah, yes. What is happening in the present/future? Well, I will be writing a few interludes about what's going on there, but the first one won't be for a couple of chapters.)**


	5. It's What Friends Do

Becca was trying not to get her hopes up. Trying very hard. But after a month of reading a whole lot of useless sci-fi and mythology, she was desperate for even a shred of something that might help her get home.

That something turned out to be a book called _Golf in the Year 2000, or, What We Are Coming To_. She had gotten it on her most recent trip to the library. One of the librarians who was used to seeing her had the book picked out when she arrived. A good thing too since, despite being fictional, it had been in the sports section where Becca never would have thought to look.

After finishing up another volume of Norse mythology – which had done nothing but add to the list of questions she had for Thor about the accuracy of these myths – Becca eyed the stack of books. She didn't feel like picking up another one. She felt like curling into a ball and crying. No more useless books. No more stupid maid job. No more nightmares about the dead or, worse, dreams of being home. No more Forties. She couldn't take it anymore. Becca had no idea how Steve managed being in a different century. He was a stronger person. But then, he'd had a bunch of people who wanted to help him. He didn't have to worry about changing the course of history in a bad way. And he wasn't able to go back to his time. She refused to let go of the hope that she could.

So Becca got up and picked out another book, ready to be mind-numbingly bored as she read about people golfing. The high-speed trains she initially chalked up to coincidence even though they were described exactly like a modern train. Trains had been around a long time. It made sense to think they'd be faster in the future, and to be fast, they'd need to be streamlined. But then there was a description of a futuristic time-telling device that sounded like a digital watch. And in this fictional future, the women wore pants like men, could hold business jobs, and worked as much as men. Also, the author described television, which didn't strike Becca as odd until she checked the publishing date (1892). She was almost positive the TV hadn't been invented then. It wasn't even commonplace now.

There were still inaccuracies. A lot of them. However, there were enough similarities to make Becca wonder. If she were to write a book about the future, she wouldn't make it completely realistic. That might create too many ripples. Plus, the book was published under the pseudonym J.A.C.K. which was a bit mysterious. Nothing inside about the author. The first printing was from London, so, whoever J.A.C.K. was, they were unlikely to be in the United States. She would have to get a phone number. Assuming they had a phone, which not many people did.

Having a tangible lead snapped Becca out of the funk she had been slowly falling into. She returned to the library first. The librarian didn't have any further information about the author or other books under that pseudonym. Luckily, Becca was in the right city to track down the publisher, Oxford University Press. Not expecting them to simply hand over an author's information, she posed as a journalist working on a local (and completely made-up) women's magazine which featured suggested reading for those who wished to understand their husband's interests. The ruse worked perfectly, and she got an appointment to meet with the editor who had selected _Golf_ for publishing in the US.

Leaving the publishing house with a sense of accomplishment, Becca splurged on some fresh ricotta and prime ground beef to make lasagna for lunch with Steve. She baked a full pan the following morning. That way there would be plenty of leftovers for Steve to keep, and she could eat a decent sized meal for once. Usually she didn't even feel up to eating much, but today she felt good.

Becca cradled the pan under one arm and rapped on Steve's door. She heard movement inside and a voice. Or was that two voices?

The door swung open.

"Bucky," whispered Becca, her voice faint with surprise.

Bucky looked so… different. Not that much physically different, apart from the shorter hair and the non-metal arm, of course. It was the way he stood, straight but with a slight tilt to one shoulder as if about to strike a confident pose. The corners of his mouth were turned up, ready to break into a smile. His eyes were what truly struck her. They appeared bright, youthful. There wasn't the slightest trace of sadness behind the blue. Nothing was haunting him. Not yet.

Those eyes regarded her now, taken aback, although Bucky hadn't lost that slight smile. Oh, right. She wasn't supposed to know him.

"I mean, I assume you're Bucky?" Becca corrected. "Steve told me about you."

"Only the good things, I hope." Bucky's smile widened to a full, charming one as he extended a hand. "And you must be Rebecca. Steve talked about you, too. Although, I have to say ma'am, you might be even prettier in person."

Jeez. No wonder Steve had fallen for this guy. Becca was used to the flattering remarks, but pair those with the boyish good-looks and Bucky was basically irresistible.

"And you are even more of a charmer." She shook his hand. "I don't know if Steve mentioned I was bringing lunch?"

Bucky's smile slipped a little. "Thing is, Steve's –"

"– right here."

Steve wasn't looking too well. Dark shadows ringed his glassy eyes, making his already thin face appear fragile. There was a cut on his lip and a yellowing bruise on his jaw. His nose was a bright shade of red, as were two splotches on his cheeks, but the rest of his skin was paste white. Each breath sounded labored. He sneezed into a handkerchief and rubbed the end of his nose.

"I told you to stay in bed," muttered Bucky in exasperation, although he gave Steve a look that said he hadn't really expected his friend to listen.

Steve ignored the admonishment. "I'd invite you in, but I don't think I'll be the best company today. Unless getting sick is your idea of a good time."

Becca definitely didn't want to catch a cold or whatever Steve had come down with. She would've asked if there was anything she could do to help, but she figured that's why Bucky was here. Furthermore, she didn't want to give Bucky the chance to memorize her face. Sure, his memories were pretty scrambled in the future, but there was a possibility he'd remember her. If both Bucky _and_ Steve remembered her, well, things were likely to get weird. Better to keep the interference to a minimum.

"Oh, it's my favorite past time, but sadly it's been pretty busy at work this past week so I can't afford days off," Becca joked. She shifted the pan of lasagna into both hands. " _But_ since you won't be up for much cooking, I'd love to leave this lasagna for you. It's not my pan, though, so maybe if I could come in and put it on plates or something? Then you could keep it in your fridge for whenever."

"Sure. Thanks," said Steve, and Bucky opened the door to let Becca through. "Let me get –"

"I'll take care of it," Bucky interjected, grabbing Steve's shirtsleeve. He half nudged, half dragged Steve towards a kitchen chair. "You're gonna sit."

Steve was not having it, instead attempting to pull himself free. "I can –"

"Just sit where you're not gonna sneeze on the lady, huh?"

That did the trick. Steve lowered himself onto a chair, frowning irritability. He was positioned so close to the edge of his chair, Becca expected him to spring right up after Bucky gave him a gentle clap on the shoulder and turned away. However, Steve stayed where he was.

The whole thing was rather funny to Becca, but she bit the inside of her lip to suppress a huge smile. This Bucky was definitely in charge, whereas she thought the playing field had evened out a bit in the future. Steve's eyes still followed him across the room in the same way, however. It seemed some things never changed.

Bucky got out a smaller baking pan and a plate for the rest. Apparently, the best serving utensil available for getting the lasagna out was a large spoon.

"I'll cut the pieces if you can fish them out," Becca suggested, not fancying her chances of using the spoon without making a huge mess.

"Sure thing," agreed Bucky, swiping the spoon off the counter as Becca picked up a knife.

There were only about a hundred questions Becca would have liked to ask Bucky, so having to settle on a mundane topic was a letdown.

"So Bucky, Steve tells me you're working at the docks. Must be cold this time of year."

"It can be. But I joined the army, so I put in my last day yesterday."

Becca nodded. This was the part where she should congratulate him or say something patriotic, but considering the path the army set him on, all she could think of to say was, "When do you start training?"

"Today," Steve answered, the word coming out pointed.

As he scooped out a spoonful of lasagna, Bucky corrected, " _Later_ today." He shot Steve a quick, patient look over his shoulder. "Still got plenty of time to make it to Jersey."

Becca's desire to ask questions had been more or less quashed, but after cutting up another row of lasagna she realized there was one question she should still ask despite knowing the answer. "What about you, Steve? Are you going once you're feeling better?"

A few moments of silence passed, broken only by the scrape of Bucky's spoon and the soft squish of Becca's knife sinking into the pasta.

Steve ground out, "I got rejected."

The results had the potential to be catastrophic, but Becca felt a sudden urge to tell Steve it was for the best. She wanted to turn around, grab his shoulders, and convince him not to try again. She'd make him understand that he didn't need to join the army. She'd make Bucky understand, too. They could live out their lives here, where they were safe and never had to shoulder the burdens of war and loss and all the other shit they'd have to go through. She could save them.

But Becca couldn't do it. The world needed Captain America, even if they didn't know it yet. And Steve wouldn't want her to save him. Maybe Bucky, but not him. Not that she would have been able to convince either of them anyway.

She loosened her vice-like grip on the knife, and with forced lightheartedness said, "Well, if at first you don't succeed…"

Under the sound of Steve sneezing repeatedly, Bucky quietly informed her, "They've got him marked so he can't try to reenlist." His voice rose. "So Steve got lucky. He gets to keep you dames company, right Steve?"

Becca glanced over at Steve, who had set his jaw in a determined manner that meant an argument was coming. He spoke up before she could think of how to intervene.

"Maybe."

"We've been over this," Bucky sighed as he filled the remaining space in the pan and switched to putting lasagna on the plate. "You tried. Changing some information around isn't gonna make a difference."

"It might."

"Or you might get arrested."

Becca had picked up the full pan and opened the fridge. "You care which shelf this goes on?" she asked, hoping to put a stop to this line of conversation. It didn't work.

"Anyone one of them is fine," Steve answered without even looking at her or sounding like he was paying much attention. "What are they going to arrest me for? Trying to serve my country? Trying to help people?"

"Okay. I don't want to argue about this," Bucky stated calmly, but he smacked down the spoonful of lasagna so hard that the sauce splattered around the plate. "You should be resting anyway."

"What I should be doing is going to basic same as you," Steve countered. He got to his feet.

"Boys," Becca placated.

Bucky shook his head, his voice tightening. "What you should be doing is staying home and not getting yourself killed." He made a fist. "Just… just don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"It's not stupid!" Steve snapped.

Then he began to cough. Hard. His whole body shook, and he made a strange, gasping sound after each one. Kind of like a whoop. Holy hell, he could have whooping cough. Becca hadn't even though anyone but babies and the elderly could get whooping cough. Then again, it was pretty unlikely they had the vaccine for it yet. Unlikely they vaccines for a fair number of diseases yet. She instinctively took a step towards him, and saw Bucky do the same. With his handkerchief pressed to his mouth, Steve held up a hand, signaling that he was fine. Which they ignored when the coughing turned into labored wheezes that drove Steve to sink back into his chair.

"Damn it," Bucky muttered under his breath as he hurried forward.

Being beside Steve, however, Becca got to him first. She didn't even have to think about what to do.

"Steve, look at me," she instructed firmly, kneeling beside him and placing a hand against his breastbone. His eyes met hers, watery with pain. "You're going to breathe with me, okay? Slow breaths. In." She breathed in and felt the rise of his thin chest. He breathed out before she could say the word, but she continued to breathe slowly and steadily until they were breathing in unison.

"Thanks," Steve croaked. "Thanks, I just need to – Excuse me." He got up and hastened into the bathroom, making coughing, hacking noises. At least they sounded less dangerous.

Becca got to her feet. Weird how instincts came back like that. She moved to wash her hands in the sink – Steve had definitely gotten spit on her – and noticed Bucky eyed her contemplatively.

"You know someone with asthma?" he asked.

"Uh, I know someone who used to have asthma when he was younger," Becca explained, running her hands under lukewarm water. "Learned it from him. It's useful for when anyone's having trouble breathing, you know?" What she didn't say is that she'd learned this method to help with the panic attacks he'd have one day.

"Yeah. Well, thanks for doing that for him."

"No problem."

Bucky resumed getting the last of the lasagna out of the pan, and Becca dried her hands on a dish towel. After a couple of rough sounding hacks, Steve returned from the bathroom.

"Sorry about all this," he apologized. "Maybe we could do lunch next Sunday?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Becca assured him. Another week. She might be gone by then. She hoped she was gone by then. "Don't even worry about it. You work on getting better."

"You left some of the lasagna for yourself, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Bucky left a few pieces in the pan." Fortunately, Bucky didn't speak up to contradict her.

"Good. He'll walk you to the bus, too."

Bucky looked like he had a difference of opinions on leaving Steve alone, but he picked up the empty pan and flashed her smile. "Sure will."

Rather than start another argument, Becca said, "That would be great." She crossed over to Steve and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Feel better."

"I'll try," he replied.

Steve opened the door, and Becca and Bucky left after a final goodbye. They descended the rickety stairs slowly, mindful of the ice. On the sidewalk, Bucky offered his elbow, and they walked down the street arm in arm.

"I've got a question for you," said Bucky abruptly. "Figure I should ask it before I'm gone awhile."

Having been lost in thought over how different Bucky walked without the weight of his metal arm, it took a moment for Becca to realize he was talking to her. "Hmm? Sure."

"Why is it you're coming to see Steve exactly?"

With a rueful smile, Becca guessed, "You're worried I might try to take advantage of him."

Bucky gave her an apologetic look, but a protective sharpness remained in his gaze. "Look, I mean no offense, but it's a strange situation. Steve… he doesn't get many people that pay him any mind. At least, not the nice kind. And you, well, you're a bit of a mystery. Steve said you don't like to talk about your past much. Heck, you haven't even told him your last name. It's all…"

"Kinda fishy," Becca finished for him. "Yeah, I get that." Looked like she had to earn Bucky's trust for the second time, and she wasn't sure how to do it. What really sucked was that she had to lie no matter what. "For a start, it's Read." She'd been using her mother's maiden name, mostly because it had the added convenience of starting with the same initial on her wedding band. "I would've said if he'd asked, but it seemed like Rebecca was enough.

"As for my past, it's… complicated. I know that's vague and suspicious, but it's the truth. Some bad things happened, I ended up here, and I just… I just..."

Sadness, loneliness, they were never far out of reach, and as Becca spoke, they began to well up. She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears as she took a breath. Then, she lifted her head. She had to stay strong or she would crumble.

"I understand why you're concerned. I would be. And I'm sure my words don't mean much to you, but I promise I'm not looking to hurt Steve. I don't want to steal from him or anything like that. I was alone. I needed help. I didn't mean to keep coming back, but Steve is nice. And easy to talk to. I needed… a friend. As far as those go, I think Steve's a good one to have. He obviously has a good taste in friends, at any rate." She flashed Bucky a small smile, but couldn't maintain it. "That's all I wanted. So don't worry. Besides, I might not even be sticking around that long."

"Oh, yeah?" said Bucky with curiosity. "Where you thinking of going?"

Becca wet her bottom lip, gazing around at the buildings and the people. This place was growing familiar, but it still wasn't the place she wanted most to be. "Home."

* * *

Steve pushed a piece of the lasagna onto a plate for Bucky. He should eat too, but Steve didn't feel like eating. Coughing fits lefts his stomach unsettled. So he put the rest away in the fridge. Between the pan and full plate, Rebecca must not have kept much for herself. He did feel badly about her coming all this way when he was sick. Mostly it wasn't his fault. It was inevitable he get sick when the weather turned cold. However, he had in all likelihood sped the process along this time.

Seeing that "4F" stamped in bright red on his application form had made him angry. He'd been training with Bucky at a boxing gym so that he'd have some skills for the army. He should be able to fight just like anyone else. As though taking a course of action might be able to prove it, Steve had done some searching and found a counter-protest against an anti-Jewish group who wanted the US to stay out of the war. By the time Bucky showed up to bring him home, Steve had been standing in the freezing cold near other people who were likely sick for several hours and got his lip busted up as well as a few bruises. He'd gotten sick the next day, and Bucky had been checking up on him.

Now, Bucky was leaving for basic and then heading to Europe. He wouldn't be dragging Steve on double dates or popping up to put an end to a fight. No more encouragement about his art or talks about the future. They'd been friends for so long that Steve was having difficulty picturing what it would be like without Bucky around. They were supposed to stick together 'til the end of the line, but Steve was being left behind all because of his rotten health. That really got to him. But he was never one to give up easy.

The front door swung open as Bucky let himself back in.

"Now that you're done trying to act less sick, will you please go back to bed?" he pressed, hanging his coat on the rack.

Steve frowned. He'd spent enough of this week in bed. "I'm fine. Here, this is for you." He brought the plate over to the table, set it down, and took the chair opposite.

With a resigned shake of his head, Bucky sat down and took a bite. "Well, I'll give your lady this. She's a decent cook."

"Rebecca's not 'my lady.' She's… a friend."

"Friends don't keep as many secrets as she's keeping."

Steve shrugged. "That's her business, not mine or anyone else's."

"But you gotta admit, there's something not right." Bucky set down his fork and leaned forward in his chair. "A woman shows up with a wedding ring, but no husband, no kids, no friends. Nothing."

"Who'd want to talk about it if they'd lost all that?" Steve could read the doubt lingering in his friend's eyes. "I trust her, Buck. It's not like I have money or much of anything else to offer if she was running a scam. I think she's just lonely."

Bucky pursed his lips, and Steve thought they were going to have another argument, but then he nodded. "I think you might be right, but be careful, okay?"

Relieved, Steve grinned. "I always am."

Bucky snorted and lifted another forkful of lasagna. "People are gonna talk about this, you know. I overheard Mrs. Cahill gossiping after church with that other witch about seeing you with 'a married woman.' And it'll get worse."

Although mildly irritated, Steve was unsurprised she had made assumptions so quickly. "We'll be all right."

"Which means you'll defend Rebecca no matter who – or how big – the other person is," said Bucky with exasperation. "You know, you could have saved me a lot of time if you'd told me you have the hots for older women."

"It's not like that," Steve protested, the back of his neck beginning to itch in embarrassment.

"No? I'll admit she might not be dynamite, but there's something about a woman who walks with confidence."

"Weren't you –" Steve sneezed and had to wipe his nose. "Weren't you telling me to be careful around her?"

"You're right." Bucky got that teasing, cocky smile on his face that always made Steve feel a bit funny. "Probably just as well. I think I might be winning her away from you."

"What?"

"I got a kiss, too." Bucky's smile faded. "Then she wished me good luck and said that whatever happens I should try and remember that you're my friend and that you'll always care about me. And she had this look on her face, like she was telling me something important and it made her…"

"Sad," Steve finished, remembering how Becca's face had looked when he had walked her to the bus stop the first time.

"Yeah." After letting out a heavy breath, Bucky shook his head. "You sure know how to pick 'em. Of all the women in New York, you found the one who's the biggest mystery."

"At least it'll keep things interest –"

Steve broke off coughing. His lungs burned as he gasped in each breath, and his throat felt tight. He thought he was going to have another asthma attack, but managed to control his breathing enough to avoid it. However, Bucky wouldn't let him sit at the table any more. He hauled Steve up, who had gone from coughing to sneezing, and tucked him in bed. Of course, Steve attempted to protest, but Bucky hopped onto what little mattress space was left and sat beside him with one hand pressed against Steve's shoulder to keep him down. Eventually, Steve gave up when Bucky brought up all these stories from when Steve had been sick before.

"Hey, remember when you had that cough where you broke one of your ribs, and we used the sheets and all your mother's dresses to turn the bedroom into a circus tent?"

"Remember when you had that bad fever for two weeks and I couldn't come into your room so we pretended to be prisoners of war who…"

"Remember when you broke your wrist in a fight and we…"

"Remember when you…"

"Remember…"

When Steve woke up, the room was empty. He coughed and coughed until grayish phlegm came up, which he wiped off on a sleeve. Bucky was gone, off at basic. No need to worry about him, not yet, anyways. He'd be back in a couple of weeks for his sister Lucy's wedding. Still, it would feel like a long time.

Steve went to the kitchen. He poured half a cup of liver juice and cut off a small piece of the lasagna. Bucky had been right. The lasagna was decent. He realized that since she had cooked, he should make the next meal. Hopefully Rebecca had the same thought. She did seem to know what he was thinking more often than not. It was almost uncanny. She was a mystery, all right. But a nice one.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Ah, Bucky and Steve before everything bad happened to them. Poor boys.**

 _ **Golf in the Year 2000**_ **is an actual novel that seems to have been written ahead of its time under a pseudonym. Even today, very little is known about the author. I'll be including quotes, so obviously I take no credit for those.**

 **Seen you all soon!**

 **(N: Thank you! I think being put in another time, one would be constantly comparing between the centuries. So glad you're enjoying that.**

 **Guest: Thanks! Hope you enjoyed this update.)**


	6. On Track

"Mrs. Read?"

At the sound of her alias, Becca looked up from her list questions for the editor of _Golf in the Year 2000_ , which she'd been incessantly reviewing since last night. She had grown accustomed to being called Mrs. Read by this point, so much so that she'd nearly always respond.

The administrative assistant gestured to the hallway beside her desk. "Mr. Foster is ready for you. His is the second to last door on the left."

"Thank you."

Becca got up and straightened her dress. She was nervous that Mr. Foster would see right through her and she'd be out the door before getting to ask anything important. No, as long as she acted confident, everything would be okay. He had no reason to suspect anyone would go through such a scheme to learn about an anonymous author of a bizarre golf book. She fiddled with her pen, passing by various offices until she arrived at the door with Mr. Foster's name. After mustering up a smile, she knocked on the half open door.

"Mrs. Read," greeted Mr. Foster. "Come in. Come in." He beckoned her into his office, drooping jowls wobbling with each wave of his hand.

The office was set up as if someone had thrown things into the room at will. Although Mr. Foster deliberately set down the papers he'd been holding on a pile, there were various stacks of paper and books scattered all over his desk without visible order. The mess actually lessened Becca's nerves. Walking into a completely organized room would have been more intimidating.

"Mr. Foster." Becca shook his hand. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"Of course," said Mr. Foster, indicating that she could take a seat. "Always happy to get some press for our books. Now you were from the…"

" _The Housewife's Home Magazine_. I write a column on suggested reading, usually cookbooks, etiquette guides, and such. But once a year I suggest a book that might help housewives to better understand their husband's interests."

"Hmm. You've certainly picked an unusual one to do that." With the shuffling of several items, Mr. Foster produced the book from within a desk drawer. "I was surprised to hear you were interested. _Golf_ didn't sell as well as I'd hoped."

Anxiety crept back into Becca's stomach, even though she'd prepared answers for just about anything. "I figured with the war going on our readers might appreciate a book with humor."

"To be sure. A terrible thing war. Terrible. I don't suppose you'd remember much of the Great War." Mr. Foster sighed. "Couldn't fight myself, of course, on account of my bad leg, but I lost a good many friends then."

"I'm sorry."

Mr. Foster nodded his acceptance. "So, as you say, I do suppose humor is going to be much needed. And I did find the book rather funny. Jackets shouting "fore!" Women running the government."

As he chortled, Becca had to force a pleasant expression to remain on her face. "Yes. What a ridiculous idea." Her voice came out strained, but Mr. Foster seemed not to notice.

"Isn't it, though? At least the main character, uh, Gibson had it right. What was it he said? 'Home is their place?'"

"Their kingdom," Becca corrected, having reread the book so often that she had it nearly memorized.

"Ah, yes. Well, I suppose you'd know that at _The Housewife's Home_."

"Mmm." Sarcastic remarks were crowding their way to the tip of Becca's tongue, so it was time to press on with her questions before one of them escaped. "Well, before I write my article, I was hoping you could give me some insight into the author. I assume J.A.C.K. is a pseudonym?"

"That it is. The whole business was rather mysterious. You know I never spoke with the author?"

"Really?" While that was disappointing, Becca supposed she shouldn't be surprised considering there were few telephones and no computers. "Did your office in the UK handle things on their behalf?"

"It's – well, it's an interesting story." Mr. Foster leaned forward, his eyes lighting up in such conspiratorial excitement that Becca leaned in as well. "But not one I'd like in the magazines."

"Off the record then." She set down the notebook in her lap.

Seemingly satisfied, Mr. Foster launched into his story. "When I contacted our home office in London, I left a message with the secretary about the book. Usually that's how these things go, I tell her the title and author, and in a few days I hear back. It's very rare we get a refusal."

"But J.A.C.K. didn't want it published here?"

Mr. Foster should his head. "Even stranger." With a grunt of effort, he got to his feet and waddled over to a cabinet with the support of his cane. "Let's see," he mumbled, shuffling through the drawers. "I thought I put it… somewhere…. in… Ah!" He lifted out an envelope and waved it triumphantly. "This letter was waiting for me with our secretary."

Becca reached out. "Could I have a look?"

The envelope was plain, marked only with "Mr. Foster" typed in the middle. Inside was a single sheet of paper on which the letter had been typed.

 _Dear Mr. Foster,_

 _I have been told you are interested in republishing my novel Golf in the Year 2000, or, What We Are Coming To. You have my permission to do so. I am delighted to think that I will be able to reach a wider audience, as I am still searching for the person who might be able to tell me why I wrote this book. Do let me know if you find them, won't you? I think perhaps they'd come to you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _J.A.C.K._

Becca read the letter twice to be sure she hadn't misunderstood and then again more slowly, her heart pounding. The author had guessed that someone would come here, someone who was curious as to why the book had been written. Was this a coincidence? Did she dare let herself believe?

"Are you feeling well, Mrs. Read?" Mr. Foster gazed at her from across the desk, his eyes haven taken on a sharpness that hadn't been there before. "You're looking pale."

"I'm fine, thank you. It's just a bit unsettling," replied Becca. After all, she couldn't very well tell him that she suspected J.A.C.K. might be a time traveler. "Did your secretary see the person who dropped this off?"

"No. It was slipped in our mail slot." He squinted, ponderously. "You wouldn't happen to know why this book was written? Or think you do?"

"I…" Becca glanced down at the letter. Did she? Being dropped in another time had been disorienting. If she had known where to find another person from the future, she most likely would have sought them out. But a sci-fi comedy about golf? It seemed a very random way to go about things. "I don't know."

Mr. Foster rubbed his wispy mustache. "Hmm. I must confess I was hoping you would. I'd have liked to speak with the author myself, but I haven't the faintest idea why he wrote the book beyond a good bit of humor. Unfortunately, I have the feeling that's not the answer he's looking for."

"So he's definitely a man?" Becca questioned. She had that feeling but didn't want to assume.

"Oh, I'd think so, wouldn't you? I know our London branch as spoken to him over the phone a number of times. I believe they referred to him as a man. Although, truth be told, it's been a while since we spoke about this. I remember them saying he called about a week after the manuscript came in their mail. Calls back every once and a while about this person he's looking for. Uses a couple of different numbers, all in Scotland."

Mr. Foster held out a hand, and Becca gave the letter back with reluctance. This was getting progressively stranger. "Haven't the faintest idea how I'd even contact him if someone showed up. Suppose I'd leave a message with the London office, and they'd tell him when he called in."

"Do you think that J.A.C.K. would speak with me? It sounds like he'd be interested in talking to his 'wider audience.'" Mr. Foster folded up the letter and set it aside, examining her in a silence that made Becca nervous. She had to speak to this author, so she pressed on. "It seems quite the mystery, and I'd be happy to share the conversation with you afterwards. And it really would make me feel better if I got to talk to him. It's – well, you've almost made him into a ghost." She let out a laugh that sounded unnaturally high-pitched to her own ears. "And you know us women can have delicate sensitivities."

Delicate sensitivities? Becca wasn't sure how her brain even came up with this stuff. If she'd suggested the same to anyone who'd known her, they'd fall over laughing at the idea of her having a delicate anything. Luckily, Mr. Foster did not know her.

"Oh, I'm awful sorry about that," he said with regret, his sharp look fading. "I didn't mean to spook you. Sure, I could give the London office a call, leave a message. Maybe if the man gets to talk to someone outside our office, he'll finally stop calling in."

"Thank you." Becca gave him a genuine smile. Another possible lead! "I really, really appreciate it."

The rest of the interview was brief. Becca asked Mr. Foster a couple of the questions at random from her list and wrote down his answers for show. She told him that the article was for next month's issue and promised to bring a copy for his wife when it was published. In the meantime, he promised to contact the London office and suggested she check back in next Thursday when he had an opening in his calendar.

Once goodbyes had been exchanged, Becca left his office, but sat on the front steps of the building. There could be another time traveler here. She might not be alone. Her eyes filled with tears at the prospect. Weeks and weeks of nothing, and she finally had a glimpse at possible success. Maybe this J.A.C.K. wouldn't know how to get home either, but they might be able to come up with something if they put their heads together. She could see her family, friends, Steve.

In her notebook, Becca rapidly copied the words from the letter as best as she could remember them. The letter was a clue, and this was her book of potential clues. She flipped through the pages, filled with snippets of the various books she had read and her own musings. She stopped on the page where she had written down the first part of the preface.

 _Why this book was written, I don't know. It's not meant to instruct; you'll have no doubt of that, after you have read it. It's not meant to – I don't even know what it's not meant to do, any more than what it is. It's not even to "supply a long felt want" – that's the correct phrase, I think. Read it, and see what you think it's meant to do._

Becca had written several possibilities about what the book was meant to do. Now, she circled one.

 _Find someone else from the future_

* * *

An icy wind whipped across the street, making Steve shiver. Each breath felt like he was sucking air in through a straw, and although his cough was no longer quite so bad, the cold still brought about occasional fits. He had one now, holding his handkerchief up to his mouth until the coughing had subsided. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, pulled his cap down on his forehead, and walked faster. The walls of his apartment would cut out the wind at least.

However, there was a surprise waiting outside his apartment door that stopped him. Rebecca was leaning against a wall, but straightened when he reached the landing. She was very early. Unless he was late? But Steve didn't think he was. Church always got out around the same time, and he hadn't talked to Mrs. Barnes for long. He tried to remember if they'd planned on meeting earlier than last week, but was almost certain they hadn't.

"Hi. Sorry to catch you early like this," Rebecca apologized after pulling her scarf away from her mouth. "I figured church would be over already."

"It's all right."

"How's the cough?"

"Better." As he walked closer, Steve got the feeling there was something different about Rebecca. "Are we doing brunch instead?"

Steve suddenly realized what was different. Whenever he had seen her, Rebecca had bruising shadows beneath her eyes, giving her the look of being perpetually tired. Those shadows were gone. Their absence made her eyes appear wider, brighter, younger even. He had estimated she was in her mid thirties, but now he'd knock a couple of those years off. And she didn't look so sad anymore.

"Actually, I was wondering if you were feeling up to a day out. A day and the evening, that is," Rebecca questioned. "I wanted to do something special. Figured I'd invite you, but it's okay if you'd rather stay in."

"Uh, sure. No, I'd like to come." Steve lowered his apartment key, having been about to open the door. "Where did you have in mind?"

The smile Rebecca gave him made Steve doubt that he'd ever seen her truly smile before. "You'll have to wait and see. But we do need to hurry."

Which is how Steve found himself rushing down the stairs and struggling to keep up with Becca's pace along the sidewalk. "What's the occasion?"

"Hmm?"

"For doing something special." He figured there must be good news, but Rebecca merely shrugged.

"Found a book that I liked."

Steve could hardly believe a book had been responsible for this transformation. "Must be some book."

"It gave me hope when I needed it."

Before he could ask for the title, Steve noticed that he'd lost Rebecca's attention. He followed her narrowed gaze. They had passed a number of familiar faces, many returning to their apartments after church. Steve had nodded politely to them if he happened to catch their eye. The two people who Rebecca appeared to be staring at would have only reciprocated with greatest reluctance. Mrs. Cahill was one. Clutching her arm was her close friend and fellow notorious gossip, Mrs. Riley.

Mrs. Cahill's eyes flicked between them. Her lips curled back as if seeing Steve and Rebecca together again had confirmed her suspicions about the two of them. She began speaking close to Mrs. Riley's ear.

"I take it the other one doesn't like you either," murmured Rebecca.

"Not particularly."

"Also because you're an artist?"

"It is my biggest flaw."

"Tch." Rebecca shook her head, but her eyes lit with mischief. "I have a feeling you're a bad liar, so don't say anything." Without giving him a chance to ask what they were going to be lying about, she called out, "Good morning!" The women barely moved their heads in acknowledgement and would have shuffled by, but Rebecca stepped directly in front of them. "You slipped away yesterday before I could introduce myself. I'm Rebecca, Steve's cousin."

"His… cousin?" repeated Mrs. Cahill, taken aback.

"Yes. Well, third cousin. I'm visiting from Montana. Steve has been showing me around." Rebecca gave them a beaming smile. "Isn't he just the sweetest?"

Mrs. Cahill and Mrs. Riley glanced at each other, their frowns sour. With an expression of great pain, Mrs. Cahill muttered, "I suppose."

Despite himself, Steve began to grin. They might like to gossip, but they would never be openly impolite to a person's face. And after hearing from Bucky what they'd been saying about Rebecca, he got a measure of satisfaction from seeing them discomfited.

"We're going to an art gallery. I knew I had to see all the wonderful art New York has to offer. I think art is the finest thing there is, don't you?"

"Well…"

"I mean, art _is_ the height of culture. You know, in my house back in Montana, we have a whole wing just for art. And Steve's an artist!" Rebecca set her hand on his shoulder. "We're so very proud of him."

"Well… well, I don't know if drawing cartoons for the paper –"

"Oh yes, cartoons!" Rebecca interrupted, nodded excitedly. "Those are all the rage. And just think of the time and dedication and talent needed for each sketch he draws. And they're so very important for the papers. They can help get political messages across or entertain or – well, what is there that they can't do?"

"Well…"

"And think how many people see his work. Certainly more people than we'll ever reach. In fact, think about how many people could see his art if his sketches get into a gallery. Why, in a hundred years, his name might be famous." Leaning forward, Rebecca smiled her widest smile yet. "And no one will remember anything about us. So really, Steve could be shaping the future with his art, right?"

Mrs. Riley's face had gone purple. She looked on the verge of giving Rebecca a piece of her mind, which would have been really something as she considered anyone younger than fifty not worth speaking to. Mrs. Cahill looked deeply disgruntled herself, but through clenched teeth she hissed, "I suppose so."

"Isn't that amazing? Well, you two have a good day." Rebecca placed a hand on the center of Steve's back and propelled him around the women.

Steve managed to make it safely out of earshot before he burst out laughing. An entire lifetime of Mrs. Cahill and Mrs. Riley sneering down their noses at him would be worth it for that moment. And, as long as they believed her about being his cousin, Rebecca had cleared up their gossip as well.

"That – that was really something," he praised, still laughing.

Rebecca looked pleased. "Their faces were pretty priceless." Her expression fell slightly when Steve's laughter turned to coughing. She rubbed between his shoulder blades. "Are you sure you're okay to be out?"

"Fine," said Steve between coughs. He dug out his handkerchief. "I'm fine." He gave a last cough into the handkerchief and tucked it away. "Laughed too hard, is all. And aren't we supposed to be hurrying? You probably shouldn't have stopped, as much as I appreciate it."

"It was worth it. I doubt I changed their minds, but at least I gave them something to think about next time they decide to give you that condescending look."

Steve nodded. It seemed that the more he saw of Rebecca, the gladder he was that she had showed up outside his door. He thought they were alike in a lot of ways, at least in the ways that mattered. She wasn't Bucky, who he already sorely missed, but she was a good friend to have.

"Thanks."

Rebecca squeezed his shoulder gently. "You'd stick up for me, too." Her hand dropped. "But also, we really should hurry it up."

They nearly ran to the subway station, which left Steve wheezing. Fortunately, the subway car came straight away, and there was room enough for them both to sit. They switched tracks, finally getting off at Penn Station.

Steve had walked through the station enough that he remembered it well, but he had only been on a train once. He and Bucky and gotten tickets three years back. They didn't have enough money to go far, but they visited a pond where he'd finally learned to swim properly. He'd attempted to teach himself before then at the Y – the ocean was out of the question with its waves and strong currents – but with little success. At least he could swim now, just not for long. Although, he was certain that swimming was not what Rebecca had planned for today.

She glanced about uncertainly. "Okay, so we get our tickets…"

Steve pointed to the ticket booths. "Over there."

"Right." Rebecca strode towards them. "I was here yesterday, but I only talked to the people at Information."

As Steve got closer, he realized that there might not be enough in his wallet for a train ticket. It wasn't often he had that kind of spending money. He took out his wallet, trailing behind Rebecca, and counted up the change. Thirty-nine cents. Not even enough to buy a them both movie tickets, never mind train tickets. And he should be paying for Rebecca as well, even though this wasn't a date.

"Don't worry about paying," said Rebecca, seemingly reading his thoughts or maybe just noticing his wallet. "This is my treat. Besides, you paid for my subway fare before I could get the chance and I might not even have money to burn if it wasn't for you, so consider us even."

Reluctantly, Steve put his wallet away. He'd find a way to pay her back, somehow. In any case, it wasn't as though he could make up an excuse to back out. He didn't think she'd believe him even if he tried.

"Hi. I'd like two tickets to Saranac Inn on the 9:05, please. Round trip," Rebecca informed the ticket agent.

By the agent's head, train maps had been posted on the wall. Steve squinted at the one exclusively for New York, attempting to find Saranac Inn. They couldn't be going too far for a day trip, but he wasn't sure in which direction. If only his eyes were better, maybe he could find it.

"Which class, ma'am?"

"First class."

Steve saw the agent's eyebrows lift in the faintest surprise. He was startled himself for a moment before remembering she'd likely had money once.

"That'll be $40.28."

Rebecca fished the money out of her purse, while Steve reconsidered his ability to pay her back. It was going to take a lot longer than he'd initially thought. He was also concerned at her choice because she couldn't be making enough working at a hotel to keep the same lifestyle. If she threw money away like this a couple more times, she'd be down to nothing again. It was too late to stop her, however. She handed him a ticket and followed the agent's directions to the correct train.

The interior of the first-class coaches were beautifully painted and polished. Thick, richly colored curtains lined wide windows, which would give the passengers a full view of the landscapes they passed. There was so much more room in these coaches compared to the cramped seat he had shared with Bucky. The people were all dressed finely too, making Steve painfully aware how shabby his Sunday best was in comparison. Even so, he lifted his chin at the first person to give him a scornful glance, daring the man to make a comment. The man turned away.

Rebecca was either oblivious to scattered the looks thrown their way or didn't care. She led them through the dining car. "We'll do lunch later. Get the full experience." Through a lounge car. "Crowded already, and way too many people smoking." Through the bar. "Jeez, how do people even breathe with all this smoke?" Into another lounge car. "Better. Let's grab those chairs before someone else takes them."

The plush chairs Rebecca had chosen looked like they could be found in the living room of a fancy house, covered in a deep green material that felt close to leather. They hung their coats and other outerwear on hooks on the wall. After placing her purse on the small table between them, Rebecca sank into her chair with a contented sigh. Steve had to shift in his chair before he could find a comfortable spot on the too-soft cushion.

"So, what do you think?" asked Rebecca.

"I think it's the most high class view of a train platform I've ever had," Steve replied, watching the activity outside the window opposite.

Rebecca smiled. "I've been promised the scenery will improve."

"I think most scenery would be an improvement."

"I've been promised the scenery will improve _drastically_."

"So we'll be seeing some trees then?"

"Two or three."

"Sounds swell."

The train jerked forward, making passengers stumble or quickly take a seat. Steve gripped the armrests until the motion smoothed as the train chugged out of the station.

"What are we seeing at Saranac Inn?" he questioned. The agent had stated their arrival time would be nearly 1:30 in the afternoon. There must be a landmark or other point of interest for Rebecca to decide to travel all that way.

Rebecca shook her head. "I told you. You'll have to wait and see." She tucked a loose curl back into its pin. "I've only got a vague idea myself. The whole reason for doing this is that I wanted to take a train ride from the famous Penn Station. The destination didn't really matter, so I got a map, closed my eyes, and pointed."

"Well." Steve faked a sigh. "I suppose it's too late to get off. At least if we end up in the middle of nothing I won't be underdressed."

"We're not going to end up in the middle of nothing. I did check with the people at Information to make sure it's a worthwhile visit. Turns out it's not too far from where my family – my friend's family, sorry, went hiking as a kid."

This was the first Rebecca had ever mentioned a friend, which made Steve curious. "A friend from here or Montana?"

The very mention of the state was like opening the door to a sickroom Rebecca was trying not to think about. The smile she'd worn since entering the station drooped. Her voice grew distant; her face turned from his.

"Montana…"

Yet, it wasn't only sadness Steve saw. A kind of desperate hunger lurked in her eyes, the look of someone told there might be a cure.

When he had been very young, there were days on occasion where he had to go with his mother to the hospital. Too sickly to be near patients, Steve had waited in the room where the nurses could take a short break or sleep if they got the chance. Once when he had snuck out, he'd come across a woman with that same look, wringing her hands outside of a door. He had hesitated, torn between wanting to peek through the door – to see what made her stare in that way, to see if he could help – and wanting to make the woman smile.

One of the nurses had found him before he could decide, but Steve felt as though he was in that same hallway. He could push the door further open or pull Rebecca's attention away.

As usual, he chose the latter.

"Hiking, huh? Well, I'm real ace at hiking. Almost as good as I am at running."

His words had their intended effect. Rebecca's expression lifted with a smile. "Sorry to disappoint, but we'll just be walking today. You'll have to show off another time."

As the train rolled onward, Steve pointed out the parts of New York City they went by, answering questions when Rebecca asked them. When they had left the city, he remembered to ask about the book she had liked so much. She hesitated, but gave him the name. He was surprised to find from her brief explanation that it was science fiction.

"And that book gave you hope?" he questioned, baffled. "About what?"

Rebecca chewed the inside of her bottom lip, and Steve saw the sickroom door creaking open. "The future. But I also read this weird book…"

And just like that, Rebecca slammed the door shut again, talking about other books she had read recently. Steve didn't have much to offer in the way of science fiction. He preferred reading about history, but she seemed content to talk about that, too. Or listen to him talk, since her knowledge of history seemed about as extensive as his was of science fiction. They got around to discussing the war, and Rebecca asked if he'd tried enlisting again. Steve hadn't yet, but admitted he planned on another attempt this week. Unlike Bucky, she gave him an encouraging nod and wished him luck. Although, like Bucky, she didn't appear overly enthusiastic about the idea.

The landscape changed to suburbs, then open land dotted by towns and woods. This was farther away from the city than Steve had ever been, and when they reached the Adirondacks, his fingers itched for a sketchbook. Devoid of paper, he had to settle for memorizing every detail to copy later.

"We should get lunch before it's too late," Rebecca suggested, getting to her feet. "You hungry?"

All he'd had today was a cup of liver juice, but Steve hesitated nevertheless. He could only imagine how expensive lunch was. "Uh, I…"

"I'll take that as a yes. Come on." Taking his hand, she gave him no choice but to follow her.

The dining coach was busy, but even so a waiter scurrying by said, "Someone will be with you in a moment, sir."

"All right. Thanks," Steve replied, but the waiter had already gone.

Rebecca stepped off to the side, clearing the doorway, which was when Steve realized that she was still holding his hand. When they'd been walking, he felt like a kid being toted along by his mother. This felt different. He glanced up at Rebecca, but she was occupied surveying the tables.

"Looks like they're cleaning off that table on the end."

"Uh huh."

Steve debated whether he should let go of her hand or not. Her grip was light, but not so much that he could pull away without her noticing. Especially since he had instinctively returned her hold. It wasn't that he minded, not really, but it seemed to him that holding hands wasn't something one did with friends. Although, now that he thought about it, a lot of women held onto each other while walking. Arm-and-arm more often than not, but he wasn't quite tall enough for that. And Rebecca wasn't paying attention.

Just when Steve had decided to leave things alone, Rebecca noticed. "Oh, sorry." She dropped his hand, averting her gaze in obvious embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he said quickly, her embarrassment rubbing off on him. "It's fine. I didn't mean –" A server appearing in front of him, and Steve swallowed what would have been a lengthy and, in all likelihood, fumbling series of assurances.

The server nodded politely to them. "Sir. Ma'am. Are you looking to have lunch?"

"Yes, please," answered Rebecca.

"Will there be anyone else joining you?"

"Nope. Just us."

The server directed them to the table that Rebecca had pointed out and gave them each a menu. Steve had a larger concern than what he would be eating. There was a whole lot of silverware beside his plate, and he hadn't a clue which utensils he was supposed to be using.

A waiter came by to take their drink orders – Rebecca picked out a wine but continued to debate over the three meal options – and then Steve was returned to his cutlery problem. It seemed unnecessary to have four separate forks. If he was eating by himself, he'd pick up the one closest to the plate and use it for everything, but he wasn't eating by himself. Rebecca couldn't expect him to know which to use, but he didn't like the notion of appearing hopeless in front of her.

"I remember having that same exact look at my first dinner party," said Rebecca, interrupting his fretting. "I was a little nervous about making a good impression. There was an… incident with the people my husband worked for. That's why we were there, and I was afraid of embarrassing him. Of course, he'd say I could never embarrass him, but –" She shook her head. "Anyway, I had never seen so many utensils in my life. Formal place settings? Sure. Smaller ones and never around people I was trying to impress. So I think to myself, 'Okay. Just start outside and work your way in,' because that's what I'd always gone by. Then I see the person across from me pick up one of the middle forks.

Rebecca lifted a fork, turning it in her hand. "Well, now I'm stuck. I don't want people to see me looking because then they'll know I'm not classy enough to know how to eat properly. But, if I use the wrong utensils, they'll think that anyway. Since I'm caught, I decided to go for it and use whatever looks like it would work the best. No one seemed to even notice what I was eating with, which was a huge relief. Until the woman I'm sitting beside glances down at the fork and knife I'm using and goes, 'Hmm.' I'm so embarrassed. I can feel my face getting red. I'm about point-five seconds away from apologizing like an idiot, when she says that it looks like the knife I'm using would work a lot better the proper one. And then she changed knives." She gestured to him with the fork. "So, moral of the story: use whatever works for you. I won't judge." Returning the fork to its place, she lifted her menu again, muttering under her breath so he only caught "probably," "shouldn't," and what might have been "told."

Her encouragement did make Steve feel less nervous. "Seems like a lot of effort to remember what to use. Must be hard to enjoy the food."

"Well, I always make a point to enjoy good food, but you're right. Besides, I don't think the purpose of dinner parties is supposed to be the food. I think it's one of those things people do to talk politics and make an impression."

"Sounds like you made an impression all right."

"It's a talent of mine."

"Of course, there was an easier solution."

Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"You could have looked at what your husband was using," Steve pointed out with a shrug. "Then you would've been cooking with gas."

"Mmm, except, as it turns out, my husband had the same philosophy when it comes to utensils. Guess he figured out that silverware wasn't that important either."

"Huh. Some swells you two were."

"Swells?" Rebecca repeated, cocking her head uncertainly.

Unsure if he was in danger of offending her, Steve searched for a neutral phrase that came close. "Uh, people in the upper class?"

"Why would you think – Oh, 'cause of the –" Rebecca waved at the room around them. "Right."

"And your engagement ring was worth a wad. I figured your husband had money."

"But not me? I don't come across as high class enough, huh?"

Steve winced. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Relax, I'm kidding," Rebecca laughed, to his relief. "I didn't expect you to be so – Well. One day you'll realize that I can be just as sarcastic as you. Just less often."

"Maybe when you get better at it."

With a hand to her heart, Rebecca sighed. "Ouch, Steve. Ouch." But then, they grinned at each other.

The waiter finally returned to take meal orders and pour their wine. Steve had to admit, having a sip of the wine to be sure it was "to his taste" did make him feel like a bit of a swell himself, if only for a moment.

"Here's to the two classiest people in first class," cheered Rebecca, tipping her glass towards him.

Steve knocked his glass delicately against hers. "Here's to them. Where ever they are."

The food was delicious. The snow-covered Adirondacks outside the window were beautiful. Rebecca was real good company. All in all, Steve considered this meal amongst the best he'd had.

The train pulled into Saranac Inn not long after they'd reclaimed their chairs in the lounge. Steve held out Rebecca's coat for her before slipping into his own. A good number of other first class passengers got off at the same stop because it turned out that the large draw of the area was a snazzy hotel with the same name. It was situated across from a frozen lake and surrounded by wooded mountains, giving him another image to memorize for his sketchbook.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" breathed Rebecca. "I saw postcards, but this is even better. Now, we'll have to be back here in about two hours. I've got work tonight, sadly. But I figured we could walk a little ways around the lake, if that's okay with you?"

"Sure."

The lake was mostly barren, but there was a patch near the hotel where the snow had been cleared away for ice skaters. Steve and Rebecca skirted the hotel, strolling around the edge of the lake and until the only sound was the light wind and crunch of snow beneath their feet. It wouldn't take too long for his cough to act up again, but being on the warm train had bought Steve time. He intended to enjoy the true quiet, which didn't exist anywhere in the city, and Rebecca seemed content enough to share in the silence.

As he watched, Rebecca scooped snow into a gloved hand. She tipped her palm, allowing the snow to fall in clumps except for the flakes the wind tore away. Then, she picked up a second handful and molded it into a rough ball.

"This is good packing snow," she noted, and without warning, threw the ball against his shoulder.

Steve brushed at the splattered snow. He would have seen that coming from a kid, but he hadn't expected it from her or he would have tried to dodge. "You hit me from one foot away. I'm impressed."

Rebecca hurried forward, forming a ball as she went. He attempted to move out of the way, but she spun and threw in a smooth motion. The snowball hit his chest.

"All right, I'm slightly more impressed."

Hands on her hips, Rebecca asked, "Are you gonna throw one back at me or what?"

His instinct was telling him not to throw a snowball at a lady. The rest was telling him it would be fun to throw a snowball at a friend. Steve bent down and gathered up snow. Rebecca stepped aside when he threw, but it wouldn't have matter. The snowball sailed further out and short of where she had stood.

"You missed." Rebecca sounded stunned. "You missed!" She clapped her hands and let out a whoop of delight. "I can't believe you missed!"

Steve was less happy with the results, but he sighed and shrugged. "Guess I can't be good at everything."

And then, it was his turn to be stunned as Rebecca ran back and pulled him into a hug. The hug was so brief that Steve didn't even have the chance to react. One moment he was engulfed by the soft warmth of her body, the next, cold was flooding in again. She set her hands on his shoulders, grinning.

"That was perfect."

Steve was still coming to terms with the fact that his face had been pressed up against her breasts, but at least his mouth seemed to know what to do. "Course it was. I meant to do that."

"You're the best," proclaimed Rebecca. Her hands slid from his shoulders to grip his hands. "Don't you ever believe otherwise. No matter what."

"All right," Steve murmured, but he was talking to empty air. Rebecca had already let go of his hands. She was walking on, repeating "you actually missed" and laughing. He realized he was smiling without knowing quite when he had started.

The rest of their walk was snowball-free, but enjoyable for the most part. Rebecca looked concerned when he started coughing, and bundled him into her scarf, smacking his hand away when he tried to protest. They cleared off a rock to rest on. Rebecca went to lean her back against a tree, but ended up slipping off the rock in the process. Once he was certain she was all right, Steve drawled, "I can't believe you missed," which sent Rebecca into a fit of giggles. She really did seem much happier.

By carefully checking Rebecca's watch every so often, they made it to the train platform on time with pink cheeks and snow-dusted coats. The heat of the train was welcome because Steve was having a bit of trouble breathing. They took a couch in a lounge car before Rebecca left him to track down "something warm." She reappeared with coffee.

"Good?" she asked, after he took a sip.

"Yeah, thanks." Steve took another swallow. There was only a faintest taste of milk in the coffee. "Just how I like it."

"Lucky guess." Rebecca smiled, her eyes lighting with that half-teasing, half-laughing look she got sometimes. As ever, it was a mystery what he'd said or done to make her look at him in that way.

They stayed on the couch for the whole way back, both so full from lunch that they decided to skip dinner entirely. At first, they talked, but the train quieted and them with it. Many of the passengers moved to sleeper cars. Steve felt sleepy himself towards the end, but it was Rebecca who fell asleep, slumped against a couch corner. He checked to be sure the inside of her coat wasn't wet, and then laid it over her like a blanket. In case that wasn't enough, he added his coat on top.

Steve was reminded of the day they'd met. She had been asleep then, too, but shivering in the cold and wearing the strangest clothing. But she didn't look like that anymore. Rebecca looked like she belonged.

Bucky had told him that she was thinking of going home to Montana. If that was what Rebecca wanted, then, of course, she should go back. But as he fixed his coat from sliding off her, Steve found himself wishing that Rebecca would stay.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **It made a nice change to write about Becca getting a little of her spark back. But will the lead pan out? That's the million dollar question. See you next week when there will be a brief glimpse into what is going on back with Thanos and future Steve.**

 **(N: We're sort of close with Captain America movie. This chapter is taking place early January and CA begins in March. Of course, I can't tell you how far this is going because that would spoil things. But thanks for the review!**

 **Guest: Aw, thank you. Glad you're enjoying it as much as Flying High.)**


	7. Interlude I

Becca was gone. Steve stared at the spot where she had stood a second before, surrounded in an orange glow. Some part of his brain was telling him that her disappearance was impossible. She had been standing right there. If he closed his eyes and opened them again, she would reappear.

However, Steve knew it wasn't true. Thanos had said he would put Becca through the same experience Steve had gone through, and with the power of the Infinity Stones at his disposal, there was no reason to doubt him. He had to assume that meant tossing her into the future, though whether that meant a leap of seventy years or hundreds, he hadn't a clue. But knowing how it felt to lose everything, to feel isolated and disoriented, he was filled with a desire to save Becca. After all, it was his fault this had happened.

On the other hand, the idea of turning on his team didn't sit right with him. A lot of them looked to him as a leader, and Steve didn't want to betray their trust. Besides, with all the power Thanos could use, the only chance they had at besting him was working as a unit. There had been plans made between them, for the good of Earth and many other worlds. Thanos had to be stopped, no matter the cost. That had been the consensus. If they didn't stop him, the future Becca had been sent to might be nothing more than an empty planet. Maybe if they got the gauntlet, they could figure out how to use it to bring Becca back. It was a possibility, but by no means a guarantee.

Steve realized that he had instinctively put up his hand in the signal for the Avengers to hold their position. He looked over the people fighting alongside him, those that were left anyway. He could sense a lot of uncertainty. Should they attack Thanos? Should they attack him? It was as if the whole team was collectively holding their breath, waiting to see what he would say or do. His eyes landed on Bucky, the one person he could count on to stand by his decision. Bucky stared back grimly, a grief in his expression that Steve imaged was magnified on his own. He wished, unfairly maybe, that Bucky would give some sort of sign indicating what he should do. But he didn't.

So Steve needed something more to help him decide.

"Why?"

It had been a question they had all shared. Gamora had explained about Thanos' obsession with pleasing Death, which explained the mass genocide. Steve supposed that Thanos might hope that by turning him against his team, they would be demoralized and fall apart. It was a war tactic and therefore not unfamiliar to him. What he didn't understand was why Thanos had set up this fight when he could easily kill them all.

Thanos snorted, as though the question was an insignificant fly buzzing past his head. "Choose."

"Tell me why you're doing this and I'll choose," Steve countered resolutely. "Unless it's because you think you need my help to win."

Thanos appeared annoyed at the insinuation, as Steve had hoped. "I do not need your help, human. It is for the amusement of Death that I do this or I would kill you now."

That was it then. Steve was once again to be a trained monkey in a show. He was disgusted that all of this pain and death was for sheer entertainment, which tempted him to turn down Thanos' offer. And yet…

Steve wasn't sure how much he alone would affect the outcome. He could fight his team a bit, show he was putting in an effort, but he was no match for them. A solid hammer hit to the head, he'd be out cold. Or he could fight Bucky, much as it would pain him to do so. They were fairly matched, and if he was fighting Bucky, Thanos wouldn't be. Bucky would understand. And he could ask that the other hostages were released, too. They were frozen around Thanos, some running towards him as Becca had, while others were caught running away.

Still, there was a chance agreeing to fight meant a loss the universe couldn't afford.

All his life, Steve had tried to do the right thing. But now, there were too many variables, too much that could go bad. He didn't know what was right anymore.


	8. Hold Me Close

_Becca sighed contentedly, soaking in the warmth of the sun and the familiar crash of the waves. After the trying week she'd had, she needed this._

 _At the sound of children thundering towards her, Becca peeked an eye open to be sure she wasn't about to get sand in her face. But they had already passed, hurtling towards the ocean. Satisfied, she rolled onto her back, noticing as she did the empty towel beside her. Now where had Steve gone off to?_

 _Becca sat up and surveyed the packed beach. No sign of him. Worry pricked at her stomach. She hoisted herself to her feet and walked down to the water, squinting at the swimmers. He wasn't there either._

 _Suddenly, Becca was terrified that she wouldn't be able to find him. She set off along the shoreline, searching up and down, growing increasingly frantic. Her skin grew cold despite the sun, and the scene around her began to swim dizzyingly as tears welled up._

" _Steve!" she called. "Steve! Ste –"_

 _His name turned to a gasp as something nudged her foot. Becca looked down and shrieked. A corpse had washed ashore, another wave pressing the bloated body against her ankle. She stumbled away, her eyes sweeping the beach in horror. They were all dead. So many of them hundreds. Thousands._

" _Becca?"_

 _Becca turned with relief. There Steve stood, wonderfully alive. When he smiled, she ran to him, burying her head against his chest and clinging to him tight. His strong arms wrapped around her, making her feel safe again._

" _What happened? What happened to all the people?" she asked in a whisper. Becca had the niggling sensation that she knew, but the answer was sliding out of her reach._

" _What people?"_

" _The –" Becca realized that the beach was empty. Strange. Hadn't it been crowded before? And there had been something wrong…_

" _Hey." Steve frowned at her in concern. "Are you all right?"_

" _Yeah." Sighing as all dark thoughts vanished, Becca gave him a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just – I missed you."_

 _Steve gently wiped the tears from beneath her eyes, looking apologetic. "Sorry about that. The current carried you farther than I'd thought. I've been trying to find you."_

 _That's right. How could she have forgotten? The current had pulled her away. "I guess we've been searching for each other then."_

" _Guess so." Steve pressed a kiss to her temple and then scooped her up, causing Becca to let out a squeal of surprise. He walked up the beach with her securely in his hold. "And now that I've got you, it's my turn to carry you away."_

 _Laughing, Becca asked, "And where is it you're carrying me off to exactly?"_

" _Right here."_

 _Steve lowered her down onto a towel, having brought her all the way back to where they'd been camped out. Only hadn't it been farther – no, this was where the towels had always been. Becca stretched out as he plopped to the ground beside her. This felt right. This was how things should be._

" _You know, I think this might be the exact spot where I asked you to marry me," said Steve thoughtfully._

" _How can you tell?" Becca questioned, although she suspected he might be right. "It's a beach. It looks basically the same everywhere."_

" _I wouldn't forget a thing like that. I wouldn't forget you."_

 _The statement sounded like an accusation, and there was a sadness in Steve's expression, like she had hurt him somehow. It made Becca feel painfully guilty._

" _I'm wouldn't forget you either," she promised, sitting up. "I love you." She kissed him, and when it ended, Steve didn't appear upset anymore._

" _I love you, too." He leaned forward, his lips pressing gently to hers._

 _It seemed like they hadn't kissed in forever. Becca didn't even want to breathe because that would mean breaking their lips apart. She hadn't been this happy in a long time, too long. She could stay like this for hours, weeks, years maybe. But there was a ringing in her ears, making her head pound, pulling her away…_

* * *

Becca shoved her face further into her pillow. She refused to open her eyes. She couldn't face another day. She would rather fall back asleep and stay with Steve on the beach. All she had energy enough to do was fumble for the knob to turn off the alarm clock before rolling over. She should be getting up for work, but today Becca didn't have it in herself to care.

Over two weeks had passed since meeting Mr. Foster. He had left a message with the London office, but there had been no contact from J.A.C.K. or anyone there saying the author had called in. Maybe J.A.C.K. wouldn't even want to speak with her, and then where would she be? It wasn't like she had enough money to go to Scotland and track him down, especially since she'd blown about half of her remaining nest egg on the trip to Saranac Inn. The train ride had been a stupid idea. She had let herself get overexcited about a potential lead without thinking too much about the consequences if the lead fell through. And she dragged Steve along – which had doubled the bill – out of a sheer, dumb need to share her excitement with another person. She was so fucking stupid. All she could do was hope she'd be gone before the expense came back to bite her.

Becca pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, hoping to be pulled back into her dreams where she could see Steve and her family and her friends. She was afraid of becoming too well adjusted to this century. What if she began to forget what the 21st century was like? What if she forgot the faces of those closest to her? Every day was the same routine of work, cooking, reading, sleep. She could look at a price tag and understand the dollar value. Her hair came out styled correctly, even if she was half asleep while doing it. Hardly anything here fazed her anymore. February was fast approaching, and some irrational part of her brain was saying that if she became adapted to this century, she'd never get home.

With that fear burbling in her head, Becca lay there, unable to get up for anything but going to the bathroom and taking Anacin for her headache. Mrs. Gould brought in soup after Becca mentioned during a bathroom trip that she wasn't feeling well, the motherly gesture making her tear up.

At one point, Becca forced herself to look over her notebook, but had to put it away after rereading the poem which opened _Golf._

 _Two paths hath life, and well the theme_

 _May mournful thoughts inspire;_

 _For ah, the past is but a dream,_

 _The future a desire._

The words were too reminiscent of how she was feeling to further speculate on them for the moment.

The next day Becca didn't feel like getting up either, but she forced herself out of bed. Going into work was nerve-wracking. She had no idea what the protocol was for sick days since it wasn't as if she could have called in. Basically, she got a slap on the wrist in the form of a vague statement that boiled down to her being replaceable if she missed too many days. However, she thought her supervisor had believed her because he stuck her in the ballrooms for the duration of her shift, where she cleaned without having to interact with guests.

The days dragged on in much the same way until Saturday when she had plans to visit Steve. After their trip, he had commented about owing her a couple of lunches at the very least.

Becca had given up hoping that he wouldn't recognize her face. Since her future self wouldn't know him, however, she was banking on Steve pinning her as a distant relation. She continued to create differences between herself and this pseudo "Rebecca" to add to the illusion. Stories from her past were to be avoided at all costs, which she was pretty good about. There had been that slipup on the train about her first dinner party as well as the recollection of when he'd sent her the Avengers-made birthday cake, but Becca figured she was still okay. Who remembered every story their friends told them? She'd just have to be extra careful going forward. Besides, if her Steve came looking, his old apartment was the only place she could think of that he'd stakeout. And, all right, she also liked having someone to talk to for more than two minutes.

So Becca had accepted his invitation and gone. They ate and talked, about the news mostly. They were both incredulous over the latest headline story – the prohibition of pinball, which had resulted in a ton of arrests and literally thousands of machines dumped into the Hudson. The German U-boats cropping up along their coast was also a concern. The impending threat got Steve more worked up than Becca, but she had the luxury of knowing there would be no large-scale attacks on American soil.

After lunch, Becca suggested, "So, I'll see you next week?" Steve had made a comment about never getting weekends to himself anymore, but she could tell that he was glad for the company.

When the timer dinged, Becca took the small meat pie out of the oven. Hopefully it tasted better than it looked. The perfect pie crust had always eluded her. At least she knew the filling was good. While the pie cooled, she fixed her drooping hair and reapplied her lipstick. For the most part, Becca had broken the habit of chewing on her lip when she was thinking or nervous, but sometimes she forgot to stop herself.

The pie wasn't too hot with gloves, so Becca pulled those on and hustled out the door. She ended up being late, but Steve didn't seem to care. They dug into the pie - which tasted just fine, hallelujah – as she asked about his latest work projects.

"You heard that we should be landing in Ireland by Monday?" Steve asked during a lull in the conversation.

Becca had heard and anticipated Steve would bring it up. After all, the first troops landing in Europe was a reminder that the army had yet to accept him. Steve treated the situation like he thought the war was going to be over at any second. Then again, the US had only fought in WWI for about a year, so he worried about missing his one chance to prove himself. Becca knew both of those things only because future Steve had told her. She highly doubted this Steve would admit the need to prove himself to anyone.

It made her sad to see him champing at the bit to get enlisted. He was full of so much anger, so much indignation. He had no idea what this war would do to him and the grief it would bring. Each time Becca spoke to him, it was a little harder to be encouraging about joining the army.

"Yeah, I heard," she replied, pushing a pile of ground beef across her plate. "It doesn't seem like we'll be doing any fighting for a while, though."

"Maybe. But I should be there when it starts," he muttered to himself, frowning at his plate as if it were the thing preventing him from being recruited.

Becca swallowed a sigh. "You gonna try to enlist again?"

Steve nodded. "I was thinking they might let me in if I tried in Jersey."

The desire to suggest he should stop trying rose up, but Becca shoved the impulse aside. "You never know. It's worth a shot."

"Exactly," Steve agreed, setting his shoulders in a determined manner. "Someone's gotta give me a chance eventually."

"Mmm." Having lost the majority of her appetite, Becca picked at the remainder of her slice of pie.

Going to New Jersey would make, what, three tries now? Becca couldn't remember how many times Steve had attempted to get in, but she was eighty-percent sure he didn't get accepted until March. More like seventy-five percent sure. Or maybe seventy. Okay, she _was_ one-hundred percent sure he'd gotten accepted at the recruiting station at a big science fair during which Tony Stark's dad had debuted a flying car. Something like that was bound to be announced in the newspapers ahead of time, so she'd know when that day was coming. Of course, Becca would very much prefer not to see that headline. She didn't want to see him looking excited about making the cut. It might put a disastrous crack in her resolve to keep her mouth shut.

"Are you doing all right?"

"Hmm? What?" Becca set down her fork and mentally chided herself for spacing out.

With uncertainty, Steve ventured, "You seem… unhappy. I'm sure you've been through the wringer. And I know you don't want to talk about that. And I'm not trying to make you talk about it or anything. It's, uh… Well, it's… The day we took the train, you seemed… I thought maybe you were feeling better. But now…" He shrugged helplessly. "Is there anything I can do? I haven't read any good science fiction and it might take me a while to save up for a first class ticket, but anything else?"

Though there was a faint trace of humor in his voice, Steve did look concerned.

Hardly anyone ever asked after her. The Goulds asked now and then about her day, but Becca always got the sense they did so to be polite. They'd never go out of their way to check up on her if she appeared upset. She thought it unlikely they'd even notice. Overall, Becca thought she did a decent job of concealing a lot of how she felt. But Steve noticed. Of course he noticed.

Her throat clogged up, and her eyes itched with welling tears. Lately, the smallest things could make her cry, which made Becca feel rather pathetic. With the amount of times she'd cried in front of him, Steve must think that's what she spent half her time doing.

Steve heaved out a frustrated sigh. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."

"No, no. It's not you," Becca assured. "You're right. I'm not doing so hot. I'm… I'm homesick." The confession sent tears spilling down her cheeks. Attempting to rein them in had no effect but to make each breath hitch in her throat. "I miss everyone. I m-miss my _life_. I just – I j-just want to go home."

Like a child who had stumbled into the woods and become lost, Becca bowed her head and sobbed. It was so hard being here. She would give anything to get back, but she wasn't sure of the way. The gravity of the situation crushed in around her, laced with despair at the ever looming possibility that she may never see home again.

Becca didn't hear the scrape of his chair, but she did feel Steve's hand touch her shoulder. On impulse, she turned, burying her face into his chest. This Steve was all skin and bone whereas hers was hard muscle, but it was Steve nonetheless. Still, she had the thought that maybe she shouldn't be crying on him like this.

Then, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. The hug was tentative, as though Steve wasn't certain if he should be holding her. His arms hung loose, ready to drop, but when Becca pressed more firmly against him, his grip tightened in response. She couldn't pull away then. Instead, she let herself cry. There was something about being held while crying that made the experience comforting, cathartic even. So when her tears dwindled and Becca had pulled herself together again – for the most part anyway – the constant ache of homesickness wasn't quite so bad.

Relief quickly turned to embarrassment, and Becca leaned back. Steve's arms dropped at once, and he jammed his hands into his pockets like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them anymore.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Becca apologized, "Sorry I'm such a mess."

"It's all right. Not that I think you're a mess. Well, you've got –"

Becca had to smile. "Rambling."

"Right." Steve fished a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it, but she shook her head.

"Thanks, but I finally wised up and invested in one of my own."

Becca retrieved the handkerchief from her coat pocket and excused herself to the bathroom. After clearing her nose, she splashed some cold water on her face to wash away the drying tracks of tears. Through the spots of rust and hairline cracks in the mirror, she peered at her reflection. Better. Now, no more crying in front of Steve. He was going to have enough to worry about in a couple of months. With a last resolute nod to her reflection, Becca pulled open the bathroom door.

* * *

Steve hovered around the kitchen table. He sat down, got up, and then sat down again. It didn't sound like Rebecca was crying in the washroom. He never meant to make her cry. Well, he wasn't wholly responsible, but Steve wished he'd thought of a way to ask after her without creating waterworks. Guiltily, he had done what he could to comfort her.

At first, Steve hadn't been too sure holding her was the right thing, even though he'd seen other men doing the same thing for dames a hundred times. But when Rebecca pressed against him, shuddering with each sob, Steve realized that pulling her close was an instinct. It made him feel like he could protect her from all the pain and the homesickness. It made him feel needed. Heck, it even made him feel taller. Until she pulled away from his chest. Without her, his arms had become useless again, and he knew that a hug could do nothing to make Rebecca miss home any less. She had stopped crying, though, so he supposed that was something.

Rebecca returned from the washroom, striding to the table with purpose and settling into her seat. She no long sat slumped; her eyes had regained a hint of strength.

"So now that I've stopped crying all over you, I just wanted to say thanks for…" She flapped her hands at the air. "You know. It helped. It did. And I'll be okay. Maybe not fantastic, but okay."

"Glad I could help," said Steve, although he'd like her to be more than okay. "Do you…"

He bit back the rest, having thought better of it, but Rebecca asked, "What?"

Hoping he wasn't about to upset her again, Steve finished, "Do you think you should go back to Montana? Bucky said you were thinking about it. And if you miss it so much, maybe you should at least visit or something."

Rebecca was silent long enough that Steve almost took the suggestion back.

"I'd like to, but it's complicated," she responded at last before dropping her gaze and attacking remaining pie on her plate with such gusto that Steve could tell she didn't want to discuss her home any further. As always, her aversion to the subject made him intensely curious and, as always, he moved on.

"Speaking of Bucky, Mrs. Barnes asked me to invite you to dinner."

Bucky had asked Steve to keep an eye on her and the girls, so Steve dropped by once or twice a week to see how they were doing. Usually he stayed for a meal. Lucy would talk about her upcoming wedding, comparing it to her sister Kathy's wedding last year. Becky would fret over school. Mrs. Barnes calmed them both while throwing him unsatisfied glances until Steve had cleaned his plate. When the attention fell on him, lately they all had a favorite topic: Rebecca. They seemed entranced and concerned at turns over her mysterious past. After extracting every last detail about the train ride, the sisters had insisted that Rebecca was interested in him. When Steve had tried to convince them otherwise, he'd even caught Mrs. Barnes giving him a skeptical look. But Steve knew better. He and Rebecca were friends. That was all.

"You don't have to go unless you want," Steve continued. His concern was that Lucy tended to be nosy and real persistent about it, too. However, he wouldn't lie to Mrs. Barnes about asking.

"Umm." Frowning, Rebecca asked, "When?"

"Tomorrow. Or next Sunday. Dinner's usually around seven."

"Mhmm. Um. Well…" Since Rebecca looked uncertain, Steve assumed that she was struggling over how to politely turn down the offer.

He threw her a lifeline. "You can say no. I already told her you sometimes work late on the weekends."

Rebecca chewed on the corner of her lip, but stopped abruptly and fiddled with her sleeve instead. "I – I suppose there couldn't be any harm in going this once."

Worried that he had misjudged the reason for her hesitance, Steve assured, "She doesn't mind the company. I think she might be missing Bucky."

"Hmm. Uh… seven? I already agreed to a double shift next Sunday. Do you think it's too short notice for tomorrow?"

"No. No, I'll see her at church in the morning."

"Okay, then I'll come tomorrow." Rebecca tipped her head towards the door. "It's close by, right? Maybe I could drop by here, and we can walk together?"

"Sure."

"I'll bring dessert. It'll just be the three of us, right?"

"Five. Two of Bucky's sisters will probably be there, Lucy and Becky."

"That's right. The four of them all have the '-y' nicknames by totally random coincidence. Although that's a fairly suspicious coincidence if you ask me." As Steve was trying to remember if he'd told her their names before, Becca added, "I think Bucky mentioned them when he walked me to the bus. Or maybe it was you."

"Must've been Bucky," Steve decided.

"Must've been."

They sat there in silence until Steve asked, "So do you have work after this?"

"Not 'til ten. I got out a few hours ago. Napped in between baking, so I'm not that tired. I'll probably do some reading or…"

Curious when Rebecca tilted her head with consideration, so Steve prompted, "Or?"

"I overheard Pauline, one of the women I work with, telling Marie that they were having a party today," Rebecca explained. "I guess her husband bought a warehouse down by the docks, so they're having it there. Nothing fancy, but there's going to be a band and stuff like that. Anyway, she said that all the maids are invited. I've spent basically this entire week holed up in my room, so I was thinking of going for an hour or so." She grimaced. "But, on second thought, maybe it's better if I don't go."

"Why not?"

"I mean, I know a bunch of the maids who have off are going." Rebecca sighed. "They don't like me. Neither does Pauline."

Steve was baffled since Rebecca had never struck him as unlikeable. "Why wouldn't they like you?"

"It's my fault. I don't talk much, so they think I'm stuck up or something. Now, normally I'd say 'screw it' and go anyway, but since Pauline is hosting, it doesn't seem right. Besides, I'm pretty sure the invitation wasn't meant for me."

Outraged that Rebecca was being excluded, Steve insisted, "You should go if you want."

"Nah, I'll take a walk or something."

"No. You should go."

Rebecca quirked an eyebrow. "Steve, it's fine. It's just a stupid party. Honestly, these women act like we're still in high school."

But to Steve it sounded like this was about more than a party. It sounded like the women Rebecca worked with were treating her like she was nothing, and that didn't sit well with him.

He questioned, "Would you be going if Pauline had invited you?"

"I don't know. Probably, but it's not worth –"

"Well, she said all the maids are invited, and that includes you."

"I guess," Rebecca agreed grudgingly. "But it'll be awkward. I hate awkward. People I know are going to see me."

"Good. Then they'll see you don't care what they think 'cause you showed up." Getting frustrated inevitably made Steve feel the need to hit something, but in the absence of a target, all he could do was ball his hands into fists.

"Is this about me or you?"

"It's – what?"

Rebecca rested on her elbow, giving him one of her intent stares. "Look, I know it's mostly about me because you'd never make it about yourself. You're not that kind of person. But at this point, whether you'd admit it or not, it's the teeniest bit about you. How many times have you heard about parties you weren't invited to?"

Steve shrugged. He wasn't invited to a lot of things. Sometimes he went anyway. Most of the time, he didn't. But it was important to go every so often, to show that he refused to disappear. He couldn't allow Rebecca to disappear either.

"You can't let what other people think stop you," Steve asserted. "You keep standing up and one day they'll have to see you." His anger draining, he added, "You should go if you want, that's all I'm saying."

Rebecca shook her head and smiled. Then, inexplicably, she began to giggle, while Steve wondered what he'd said that she could have found funny.

"I – I haven't had an argument like that in a long time," she laughed. "Is it weird that I missed these arguments? It's gotta be weird. Especially since I always lose."

Steve hadn't a clue what she was talking about. "Uh, what kind of arguments?"

"The kind that frustrate the hell out of me, but ultimately make me a better person." Rebecca picked up his plate and stacked it on top of hers. "I guess it would be pretty cool to listen to a real swing band."

Realizing that he'd gotten through to her, Steve checked, "So you're going?"

"On one condition." After dumping the dishes into the sink, Rebecca set about lifting the rest of the pie out of its pan and onto a plate. "You're coming with me."

"I am? Did I get a new job without my knowing? I don't know if I have the waist for one of those maid's uniforms."

"Word was that you're allowed a plus-one. Unless you have other plans?" she questioned, crossing the room with her empty pan.

There were a number of sketches he was working on, but they weren't due until Monday. "Well, no, but –"

"Oh good. So six works for you?"

Rebecca shrugged on her coat, and that's when Steve recognized she was leaving. He stood up. "Yeah, but you should take –" He would have told her to take some of the pie back with her, but she spoke over him.

"Great. It's at the Woodruff Pier. I think someone said it's the Avenue U stop, then three streets down on your left. As I said, nothing fancy, so don't worry about dressing up." She moved over to where he was standing beside the remaining pie. "If you'd like to decline, now would the moment."

"No. I'd like to go, but before you –"

"I'll see you at six then." Rebecca held up the pan. "See this empty pan? This is how I win arguments. Running." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "And distractions." With a wink, she was out the door, leaving Steve blinking at the spot where she had stood a moment before.

He turned to wash the dishes, half in a daze. His plans for the evening had been minimal. He had been thinking of maybe catching a picture at the most. This was far better. It had been a while since he'd been to a party. The last couple had been double dates set up by Bucky, and those women had inevitably drifted off by the end of the evening. This would be a nice change. Not that this situation was all that comparable, since it wasn't a date. They were friends. It would be like going with Bucky.

All the same, Steve picked out his best clothes and ironed them. Every worn spot seemed larger, more obvious than it had when he last wore the outfit to church. Once finished, he left the clothes lying flat on the table while he worked on his sketches until their agreed meeting drew close. He changed, combed his hair, double-checked his reflection, and left.

Following Rebecca's directions – she'd been slightly off on the number of streets – Steve arrived at Woodruff Pier. Rebecca was nowhere in sight. People passed on by, some dolled up, others not. He heard faint snatches of music from the warehouse. A friend of Bucky's passed on the sidewalk opposite and waved to Steve, who waved back.

Finally, Rebecca showed up. Her hair was pinned back in a different fashion from the usual curls. Her lipstick was a shade of darker red. She was wearing jewelry, which he'd never seen. Looked like it was a good thing he'd decided to wear his best.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late. I made the mistake of telling Mrs. Gould that I was going to a work party, and she would not let me leave without borrowing some of her jewelry." Rebecca fingered the silver chain around her neck. "Which was nice of her, but jeez, does that woman have fashion opinions."

"Must be the right kind of opinions. You look swell," Steve noted.

"Thanks. You're looking all right yourself." Rebecca bumped him teasingly with her elbow, then offered it. "Shall we?"

Steve took her arm and together they walked into the warehouse.

The party must have started earlier because the place was already hopping with guests. Tables had been nestled in one corner, around which women talked while their men played cards, smoked, and drank. A makeshift bar had been set up behind a large table, the bartender rushing to fill glasses. A line of crates had been partly covered in table clothes and was littered with food. Three women were hovering around the food, darting over to anyone who came close in order to point out which dishes were the best. The band Rebecca had been looking forward to played swing while couples danced.

The guests' coats were all piled on benches near the door. Steve helped Rebecca out of hers and placed his on top of it. He waited for Rebecca to decide where she'd like to go, but she just stood there, looking lost. When she smiled tentatively, he followed her gaze to one of the women by the food. The woman barely nodded, and Rebecca's smile fell.

Steve felt anger begin to smolder in his gut. "Is that Pauline?"

"Huh? Oh, no that's Ethel."

"Rebecca?" questioned a female voice.

"That's Pauline," said Rebecca before facing the woman. "Hi, Pauline."

Pauline seemed to be in her early forties, tall and thin enough that Steve thought she couldn't weigh much more than him. She was staring at Rebecca in surprise.

"I didn't expect to see you."

"Thought I'd drop by for a bit to say congrats to you and your husband on the warehouse," Rebecca replied. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course." Pauline gave Steve a once over, and he recognized the expression of barely concealed glee as she found him lacking. He would be another piece of gossip later. "And this is your…"

Steve decided to introduce himself without a handshake. "Steve Rogers, Rebecca's friend."

"Friend," Pauline repeated, her tone hinting at her astonishment. "I didn't know you had friends, Rebecca." She smiled at him. "Never talks about herself this one. I was starting to think our queen had popped out of a hole in the ground."

"Funny, 'cause from what she said about –" Steve choked off when Rebecca jabbed him hard in the back.

"Well, we were about to get food," said Rebecca, taking his arm. "Make sure to give your husband my congratulations."

"I will," Pauline assured. "And we'll have to talk later."

"Or never," Rebecca muttered as she directed them away.

"You should have let me finish," Steve protested, annoyed that Pauline had gotten away with her phony smile and barbed comments.

"And be thrown out the second we got here? Besides, I'm going to have to see her again, and I'd never hear the end of it."

Both were valid points, but they didn't make Steve any happier. "I guess."

"I'm actually not that hungry," Rebecca confessed as they wove their way over to the food. "Are you?"

"No. And I think we'd have to get past the three dragons to get to it, even if I was."

"True," said Rebecca with a grin. "I could use a drink, though."

"I'll get you one." If he couldn't defend her, Steve figured he could at least pay for her drink. "What'd you like?"

"Why don't you surprise me?"

"One surprise coming right up."

Steve debated between the usual drinks women liked and decided to get her a Manhattan. He waited in line, glancing occasionally to where Rebecca waited for him beside one of the walls. Whenever their eyes met, she smiled. She had a nice smile, the kind that left one no choice but to return it. For once, Steve felt the need to hurry back, which he did, drinks in hand.

Rebecca took a sip of her Manhattan and declared, "Good choice."

"It's the only kind I make," Steve joked over the rim of his glass.

"Really? That's weird because I could've sworn you were going to pick a fight with the hostess of this party about, mmm, ten seconds after we'd arrived."

"Who me? That's doesn't sound like me."

"Oh no, not at all."

Steve gestured to the room with his glass. "So who else do I have to not pick a fight with?"

"Well, let's see…"

Rebecca might not talk too often with her coworkers, but she did listen. She had stories about everyone, and Steve had plenty of dry remarks. When Rebecca ran out stories, she made up ones about the people she didn't know, and that worked just as well for him. Steve was enjoying himself and so, it seemed, was Rebecca.

Which meant after seeing her gaze slide over to the band yet again, Steve plucked up the courage to ask, "Would you like to dance?"

"Dance?" Rebecca repeated disbelievingly. "You're asking me to dance?"

"I think so. Pretty sure."

"Yeah, no, I'm just surprised. The fir – Er, I didn't peg you as the type to dance voluntarily. Or ask."

"I don't much anymore. And I haven't had much practice dancing," Steve admitted. As a matter of fact, the only practice he'd had was when Bucky had taught him. "And I'd hate to step on your toes, but if we picked a slow song like this one, I think we'll be all right."

Her eyes darted to the band before returning to him. "Umm…"

Confidence receding, he said, "We don't have to dance. I thought – you were looking and –"

Rebecca held a finger up to his lips, and Steve stopped talking. "Take this back, and I'll meet you on the dance floor." She handed him her empty glass and strolled off.

Steve stared after her. A part of him hadn't expected her to accept, and was stunned that she had. He walked slowly, like if he moved too fast the moment would burst, proving to be nothing but a daydream. Then, he remembered they were supposed to dance to this song before attempting a faster rhythm, which spurred him towards the bar with more speed.

With his hands free, Steve made for the dance floor. Rebecca had chosen a spot near the edge where there was space to maneuver without the danger of bumping into anyone.

"You wouldn't happen to know the foxtrot, would you?" she asked.

"Sort of." The foxtrot was simple, which was a relief. There were only four steps if he was remembering correctly.

"I thought you might." Rebecca placed a hand on his shoulder and held out the other from him to take.

Determined not to make a fool of himself, Steve slipped his fingers between hers and set a hand on her waist. It was the foxtrot. Nothing too difficult. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember which foot to lead with.

In a whisper, Rebecca prompted, "It's your left."

Steve nodded. Of course it was his left. He stepped forward minutely, so that he wouldn't land on her foot by accident. Each step grew surer than the one before it, and soon they were dancing. They danced until his lungs burned and his feet hurt and his skin was soaked in sweat. But Steve couldn't bring himself to suggest they take a break because Rebecca seemed happy, from the moment they stepped onto that dance floor until she gave him a goodnight peck on the cheek. Knowing he had done something to make her smile that way, it gave him the same feeling as holding her had, like he had grown a couple of feet.

And when Steve got home and glanced in the bathroom mirror, he was surprised to find that he looked just the same.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Those who read _Flying High_ are probably wondering about this dancing scene. But wait, Becca in the future is supposed to be the first woman to dance with him! Don't worry. I haven't forgotten. It will be explained, eventually.

Next chapter, dinner with most of the Barnes family, which is more or less Becca meeting Steve's adopted family. It's going to be a fun time. Seen you then everyone.


	9. Family

Rebecca was clutching her sponge cake like a peace offering, her eyes fixed nervously on the Barnes' apartment door as though she expected the Roosevelts were waiting to meet her inside. Steve found her anxiety funny, having known the family as about the nicest people one could meet, and attempted to reassure her. Nevertheless, he wasn't completely immune to nerves on this occasion. After all, it was important to him that Barneses like Rebecca.

Becky answered his knocking and ushered them in. It seemed like only last week that she was yanking the door open and leaping into a hug, which would send him teetering precariously backwards no matter how much he braced for her weight. The warmth remained, but she treated him with increasing reserve since entering high school. He was greeted now with the briefest embrace, her touch light.

"You've been fighting again," she chided, inspecting his face.

Steve shrugged, a sore patch below his neck sending a throbbing reminder that he had indeed been in a fight. "I had a small disagreement."

On his way home from church, he'd overheard a commotion in an alley. Three men reeking of alcohol despite the early hour had been beating a fourth man, who was crouched helplessly on the ground. The attackers had cleared off after it became apparent that Steve wasn't going to back down no matter how many punches they landed. The fourth man had spat at him before stumbling away, but Steve left the alley feeling better. Although, the brawl hadn't brought the same level of release fighting usually gave him because, oddly enough, he hadn't felt quite as frustrated this morning.

"Rebecca, this is Becky," he introduced to divert attention away from his wounds.

"Pleased to meet you," said Becky, nodding politely.

"Yeah. Hi." Becca shifted to offer a hand, but the cake began to slide, unbalanced. She resumed clutching the plate with both hands, a faint pink tinge on her cheeks. "It's nice to meet you, too."

Always mindful to dispel another's discomfort, Becky offered, "The cake looks nice. I can set it on the counter if you don't mind."

Rebecca handed the cake to her with a "thanks," and Becky took it over to where her mother and Lucy were finishing up dinner.

"My turn!" Despite being three years older than her sister, Lucy had an enthusiastic openness that made her seem the youngest of the Barnes siblings. And she held no reservations about giving him lung-crushing hugs.

Gulping in a strained breath, Steve managed, "This is Lucy."

"That's me." Lucy let go of him to survey Rebecca like a puzzle she couldn't wait to solve. "Hmm. You're the right height, but I thought you'd be bigger. Not that you're thin, but –"

"Lucille," snapped Mrs. Barnes.

"What?" Lucy frowned, genuinely unsure what she had said wrong. Somehow she had evaded the doubtless many attempts to drill politeness into her manner. Unfailing, Lucy favored honesty over tact, which Steve didn't mind in the least. However, he was alarmed that Rebecca might think he had been discussing her weight. "From the way he described her, I thought she'd be…" Lucy spread her hands, adding inches to Rebecca's waistline.

Before he could step in with reassurances about not meaning any offense, Rebecca confided, "I lost some weight. I was used to different food. And different portion sizes."

Lucy nodded in understanding. "Cause you were rich, right?"

"Lucille, stop pestering our guest and come finish these potatoes." Mrs. Barnes jabbed at a pot, presumably full of the neglected potatoes, with her wooden spoon. "You haven't even given the poor woman a chance to take off her coat yet."

Under her mother's severe gaze, Lucy gave a carefree shrug and returned to her pot. Becky lifted the proffered spoon from Mrs. Barnes' grasp, taking over a second pot. While they fussed over the meal, Steve and Rebecca took off their coats.

"You weren't kidding about Lucy," Rebecca murmured, hovering uncertainly in front of the full coat rack.

On the trip over, Steve had thought it a good idea to warn her about Lucy's blunt curiosity. "She means well," he replied quietly, sliding the coat from Rebecca's hands and tossing it over one of the others. He did the same with his own coat.

"Oh, I know. She reminds me of me a bit, when I was younger." Rebecca grimaced. "Did I just say that? Guess I'm getting old."

"Yeah, I wasn't gonna say anything, but I think you're growing some grays. And all those wrinkles…"

"Careful. One day I'm going to get even for the old jokes."

"Better hurry. Doesn't look like you have long left." He grinned as Rebecca nudged him with her elbow.

When he glanced back at the kitchen, Steve caught Mrs. Barnes giving them a speculative look. She beckoned him and turned at once, preparing to orchestrate the movement of pots and platters to the kitchen table. Steve was allowed to help, but Rebecca, Mrs. Barnes shooed into a seat by insisting she was a guest.

"But Steve –" Rebecca tried to protest.

"– is family," finished Mrs. Barnes in a tone that meant she would accept no further argument. "And plenty capable of carrying a few dishes."

Steve felt a swell of pride at that, setting down the liver loaf with extra care.

"I know he's capable," muttered Rebecca, her nose wrinkling in annoyance. "That wasn't the issue." But she stayed put without any more objections as the table was set before her.

Once the plates were in place and the food laid out, Steve and the Barneses filled remaining seats. Steve clasped his hands together and bent his head as Mrs. Barnes said grace, Rebecca following suit on his left. On his right, the sisters had taken up the same posture, but the floorboards beneath his feet shifted as Lucy bounced her heels. He could sense her peeking through her lashes at Rebecca, eager to ask all the questions he had been unable to answer. For the most part, Steve was certain Rebecca would be able to handle the grilling, but he'd step in if need be. And if Mrs. Barnes didn't get there first.

After a chorus of amens came the clattering of pots and silverware as food was scooped onto plates and passed around the table. Steve cut the liver loaf. At the first meal after Bucky had left for basic, they had all sat there for nearly a minute before Steve realized the women were looking at him to take up the job. The position was a strange one to be in. Being the man of the house gave him a new sense of purpose. Yet, taking up Bucky's place reminded Steve that his friend was off training along with increasing numbers of the young men of New York, while he had been deemed unfit to serve among them.

The plates were passed to him one after the other, and Steve set a slice of the loaf on each. Mrs. Barnes cajoled Rebecca into three additional spoonfuls of cabbage, so he thought that he'd escaped her watchful eye for once. No such luck. Likely he would never have a plate full enough to completely satisfy Mrs. Barnes, but she nodded her approval when he doubled his portion of potatoes.

While dishes continued to make their rounds, Lucy started her line of questioning. "So, Rebecca, Steve told us you're from Montana?"

Since they hadn't known Rebecca long enough, Steve didn't think anyone apart from himself would spot the effect the mere mention of Montana had on her. Her shoulders curved in slightly, bracing. Her eyes lost a measure of their warmth, and behind what was left, desperation flickered. Her voice sounded friendly enough, but contained in it a measure of reserve.

"That's right."

"Where in Montana?"

"Hinsdale. It's near the Canadian border."

"Is that a big town?"

"Not really. It's mostly farmland."

Mrs. Barnes guessed, "It must have been quite the change coming to New York, then."

"Yeah, it's very different," Becca agreed.

Spotting his chance, Steve teased, "You should have seen her in the subway for the first time. I don't know if I've ever seen someone look that shocked."

As he'd hoped, his ribbing set Rebecca at ease. "I don't know. I'm sure some of the customers in that jewelry store could give me a run for my money. You would have thought we'd been rolling in garbage."

"Well, _I_ hadn't been."

Steve could see Rebecca's desire to give him a gentle prod for that comment, but – maybe because they were at the table – she curbed the impulse, sniffing in mock-insult in its place. "And I hadn't either. Women don't roll in garbage. It isn't decent. We tumble gracefully."

Rebecca tipped her head towards the Barneses in conspiratorial understanding. Lucy giggled, while Becky and Mrs. Barnes's expressions conveyed their amusement.

"Course," Steve chuckled. "You would never do anything ungraceful like, oh, fall off a rock into a snowdrift."

"No more than you would do anything bull-headed." Delicately, Rebecca reached out, tracing the tips of her fingers beside a bruise beneath his left eye. "Like jump into a fight with strangers."

"Men don't jump into fights. We lunge courageously."

"Repeatedly, in any case," corrected Mrs. Barnes, at which they all laughed.

"Who was it this time?" Becky inquired.

Omitting the graphic details, Steve recounted the fight, receiving exasperated sighs and quiet tut-tutting between bites. They had heard similar stories before, enough that the news tales didn't garner quite the fearful, gasping reaction they used to.

"And in broad daylight," tisked Mrs. Barnes. "This is why I don't like you girls walking around alone. When a man has a drink in his hand, there's no telling what he might get up to." She huffed in disgust. "Is it like this where you're living, Rebecca?"

"Um…" Rebecca paused in cutting a potato and thought. "Well, I haven't seen any fights in the daytime, no. But I am on the west side, which is a bit… safer."

So he had been right. Between the bus she took home and the money she'd saved, Steve had been guessing at where she lived. He had asked once, but only received a "that way, I think" and a vague wave of her hand in answer.

Mollified, Mrs. Barnes continued, "And you're living with an older couple?"

"Yes, yes. The Goulds. I'm renting a room from them."

"Did you have a farm before? You know, in Montana?" Lucy asked, the prospect seeming to excite her.

"Don't be silly," interjected Becky. "Farmers aren't rich."

"Oh." Lucy blinked like she'd plain forgotten the fact. "Were you the richest people in town?" Rebecca shook her head, mouth full of potato. "How much money did you have?"

Mrs. Barnes shot her a warning glance, but Rebecca's smile widened like she was about to tell a good joke.

"Before all this, I had around ten-thousand saved up."

Steve almost choked on his cabbage. That was a lot of green. He couldn't even imagine having that much money. The Depression had hit Montana particularly hard, too. Her husband must have had plenty in the bank to come out the other end with that sum.

Breathlessly, Lucy asked, "What happened to it?"

Rebecca's eyes dipped to her plate; her smile had gone. "It's lost."

Lucy was unperturbed by the change Rebecca's demeanor. "How? Is that why you left Montana? 'Cause Becky was thinking maybe your family got sick and you had to spent it all on doctors and medicine, but I was going to guess your husband gambled –"

"Lucille, that's enough," Mrs. Barnes intervened. "I apologize for my daughter. Please don't feel you have to answer."

Yet, the room fell silent, curiosity hovering thick in the air; everyone's attention narrowed to Rebecca. Even Steve was guilty of adding to the pressure, but he had wondered at the answer for nearly two months now. What had happened to Rebecca to drive her away from her home?

Rebecca glanced between them. When her eyes caught his, they were imploring. His tongue felt heavy, useless. He should say something. He had sworn to himself he would step in if she needed him. But the moment past too quickly, and Steve was left with the hollowing sense that he'd failed her.

"There, um…" Rebecca cleared her throat, turning a knife around and around in her hand. "There was a party at our house. And there was a – a fire…"

In the stillness of their collective bated breath, Steve imagined the party, high class rooms suddenly ablaze, Rebecca's face lit in the bright orange glow of flames. Her house burned to the ground, her husband dead. She had used "our," and although Rebecca had never mentioned them, at her age, there was a strong possibility that "our" reflected a whole family, including young children.

The knife continued to turn in her hand, reflecting her expression of misery. Steve was abruptly reminded of Lucy's earlier speculation that Rebecca would be "bigger." He had noticed she'd lost weight of course, but it had never seemed wrong until now. Her full cheeks diminished, bone beginning to poke through the scattered freckles. Veins visible through the skin at her wrist as the knife rotated. Her dress sagging loosely against her chest, her grief like an unsatisfied artist, erasing her frame and drawing her thinner, erase, thinner.

"Did most of the guests make it out?" Lucy ventured, her voice uncommonly timid.

"No. I don't know. So many people were dead. I – I saw them die. They didn't even have a chance; they were – And if –" The knife stopped, quivering as Rebecca's breathing grew erratic. Steve reached for her, but she abruptly stood. "Excuse me." She hastened out of the room, the front door slamming shut behind her.

Steve was half way out of his chair before Mrs. Barnes said firmly, "Sit back down." Used to obeying when she spoke, he immediately sat. "I'll go talk to her."

Mrs. Barnes headed after Rebecca, and Steve might have followed if another person hadn't also been upset and in need of attention. Lucy was trembling, eyes wet with tears.

"I didn't mean to make her upset like that," she sniffled. "We all wanted to know. I was just asking."

Becky shook her head impatiently. "You shouldn't have asked. You're so rude."

"I am _not_."

Having been around the sisters long enough, Steve knew with certainty that an argument was coming. "Hey, now –"

"You are," Becky insisted. She poked glumly at her food. "She'll never come back. And you probably ruined things for Steve."

Shoving her face into her hands, Lucy burst into tears. Steve frowned at Becky, hard, while she patted her sister's back with exasperation.

"Okay, I goofed. I'm sorry." In a loud whisper, Becky added, "She's stressed 'cause of the wedding."

"I'm not stressed!"

Becky rolled her eyes at him. Steve sighed. He had to figure out how to fix this.

"Don't worry about Rebecca, Lucy," he comforted. "She gets like this sometimes. You didn't ruin a thing. I've made her upset more than once, but she keeps coming back."

Lucy peeked over the tips of her fingers. "That's because she's sweet on you."

Steve shook his head. "It's because she knows I don't mean to make her sad."

Becky and Lucy traded a glance, their argument forgotten as a signal passed between them.

"Steve, Lucy and I were thinking we need to have a talk," Becky informed him, drawing herself up in her chair with a manner of authority.

A bad feeling slipped into Steve's gut. "About what?"

"Women."

The back of his neck started to itch. Mere seconds ago, he had been bracing himself to diffuse an argument. Somehow the conversation had gotten turned around completely, and Steve was caught on unstable ground without cover.

"I know plenty about women," he declared, not quite able to meet Becky's eyes. "Buck talks about girls all the time. I'm only mostly deaf in one ear, not both of them."

After blowing noisily into a handkerchief, Lucy stated, "Well, there's what Bucky will tell you about women, and then there's what women will tell you about women. We've got the inside scoop."

"Uh huh."

She had used those exact lines last time they'd roped him into a similar conversation. Steve had felt just as out of place then. He wasn't too good at talking to women in general, never mind talking about them with women. It was the one thing that made him feel like running instead of fighting, and this time Bucky wasn't around to bail him out.

"Women are not going to say when we're sweet on you," said Lucy matter-of-factly, dabbing at her eyes. "Not most of us. It would seem too…"

"Forward," offered Becky, and Lucy nodded in agreement. "So you have to look for the signs. Like, if we smile at you a lot. Or look at you a certain way. Or invited you to go dancing, for example."

Relieved he had been offered an escape, Steve pointed out, "Rebecca didn't ask me to dance. I asked her _._ "

The sisters exchanged another loaded glance.

"Which brings us to another piece of advice," continued Lucy. "We might not tell boys if we're sweet on them, but we _really_ like it when you tell us."

Steve recognized what she was implying, and the room grew abruptly warmer. She was wrong. "I like Rebecca as a friend."

"You were smiling awful big after church when you told us about how you danced with her last night," Becky reminded him.

"I had a swell time. That doesn't mean I'm – I'm 'sweet' on her." Becky and Lucy didn't look much alike, but they were wearing identical expressions of disbelief. Feeling both irritated and flustered – an uncomfortable combination – Steve ground his teeth before saying, "I know you want to help, but we're friends. That's all."

"Hmmm," hummed Lucy. She opened her mouth, likely to voice further advice, but Becky spoke up first.

"Why don't you invite her to the wedding, Lucy? I think we can afford one more guest." In case her intension escaped them, she added, "That way Steve would have a dance partner since he likes _dancing_ so much."

Comprehension dawned on Lucy's face and she beamed. "I think I will."

It was apparent to Steve that he could protest until he was blue in the face and he still wouldn't change the girls' minds. Maybe Bucky would be able to convince them at the wedding. Mostly he was relived this conversation was over, as the sisters had moved onto chattering about wedding plans instead.

Neither Mrs. Barnes nor Rebecca had returned. The front door remained closed, and he couldn't hear their voices, though he strained to try. Surely Rebecca hadn't taken off. Still, she must be real broken up since they hadn't come back inside yet. But Steve couldn't blame her. Dying in a fire was a horrible way to go, and having to see that, it was no wonder she had left Montana. He really ought to check on her.

* * *

She couldn't catch her breath. Her chest was rising and falling, but no air was coming in. Her ribs were squeezing at her lungs; warning tingles shooting through her fingers and the tips of her toes. Fear pulsed with each beat of her heart. She was going to have a panic attack.

Becca slammed the door shut behind her. She slipped down the wall of the tenement building, not caring about the muck smearing her clothes or the patches of freezing snow. They could all be dead. Everyone could be dead. And if they were dead, Thanos might come back. He could travel to the past and do it all over again. Or he could bring her back to the present, leaving her amongst the dead. All those bodies…

She wanted to get a grip on herself. Of all the times to have a panic attack, why did it have to be now? But she couldn't control it. Becca knew that as much from experience as reading about them. Still, shame surged with the fear, shame that pure speculation could drive her out the door while everyone waited for her inside. What a terrible impression to leave.

Suddenly, Becca realized she wasn't even trying to breathe anymore, but was holding her breath instead. She attempted to breathe, but it was barely within her power to take short gasps of hyperventilation. She buried the knife in the dirt at her feet, attempting to ground herself in that flash of rage. It didn't work. She was supposed to let the panic attack happen, accept her fear. However, Becca didn't like losing control, and having an attack like this felt like she wasn't even in control of her own body anymore. She shook, tears burning in the cold night air. Salt wet her lips, and she thought she might gag on the taste, so like blood.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Barnes appeared, crouching down to Becca's level. She had the same blue eyes as Bucky. They held concern, a softer look than Becca had yet to see from her. The concern made Becca feel an even deeper shame.

"Asthma?" asked Mrs. Barnes.

Words jammed in Becca's throat. She could barely force them out between gasps. "Not. Asthma." Nonetheless, the question sent a sliver of clarity through the haze of her panic. When Bucky had experienced panic attacks, she had handled them a lot like she'd handled Steve's asthma attack. And she had learned the method from Steve. "But can you? Breathe?"

The rest of the sentence stuck as Becca resumed hyperventilating, but luckily Mrs. Barnes understood.

"Rebecca, I need you to breathe with me. We're going to take slow breaths."

Becca closed her eyes, trying to focus on the pressure of Mrs. Barnes's hand on her chest and the rhythm of her steady breathing. For several long minutes, control eluded her, but slowly, slowly she calmed.

"I'm sorry," Becca apologized once she was able to speak fluidly.

"There's no need to be." Mrs. Barnes sat gingerly, avoiding the spot where the knife was stuck into a patch of mud. "Does this happen often?"

"This is the fourth time since…" Becca licked her bottom lip, not wanting to think about her past. She was nervous about cycling into another panic attack.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Becca wiped the tears from her cheeks and then hugged her knees to her chest. If someone walked by and could see up the skirt of her dress, fuck it. The position was comforting, and it was dark anyway. As dark as it could ever get in a city.

"I only ever knew one of my grandparents."

The statement was so out of nowhere that Becca blinked at Mrs. Barnes uncomprehendingly. Her expression was distant. She ignored the strands of white and red hair that had come free from her bun. The locks blew across her face in the faint breeze. The way she looked made Becca think she was in for a story. She settled her chin onto her knees once more and closed her eyes.

"My grandmother on my father's side. I called her Mam. When she was a girl, she lived through the Great Hunger in Ireland. I asked her about it once or twice. Others asked her, too. Some people wanted to talk about their experience with her, as if sharing their pain might make them feel better. And maybe for them talking would help, but Mam didn't like to talk about it much. She'd grumble, maybe say a few words. But I overheard her describe it once, the people she saw starving in her town. 'I've never known a greater guilt or a greater fear,' she said. 'Fear that it could happen to me and guilt that I stood by and couldn't do nothing. It didn't matter that it weren't my fault; I still felt it was.'"

Survivor's guilt. That's what Mrs. Barnes was talking about. They probably didn't use that name for it yet, but Becca knew. She felt the same about having watched Thanos kill thousands of people. Becca shivered, but kept silent.

"She was a kind woman, Mam, and strong. I think it broke something in her, seeing all that death and not being able to help. And I think once something in you breaks, there's no fixing it. But what you can do is patch it up the best you can. Live the life they never got to have. Find what makes you happy."

At the creak of the door, Becca opened her eyes. Steve walked out, glancing around before spotting them on the ground. At the very least, he would know she'd been crying, and after she'd promised herself not to do that around him anymore. Or, actually she'd promised herself not to cry in front of him, so she supposed technically that promise had been kept.

"You all right?" Steve questioned, the tension in his shoulders a sign of worry.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I realized my dress was way too clean. There was no garbage, but I thought a little mud would really complete my look." Becca shot him a reassuring wink.

The tension eased, his frown replaced with a smile. "And what look is that?"

Something dirty leapt to mind, but Becca was absolutely not going to say anything dirty in front of Mrs. Barnes. A good thing she thought better of it too, since she'd probably have shocked Steve in the process. Sometimes she forgot he wasn't her Steve.

"Hot mess?"

Steve snorted, mouth opening for a reply, but he paused. His eyebrows creased; his smile shrunk to a near flat line. "Well, uh, your dinner's getting cold."

"We'll be right in," said Mrs. Barnes.

With a nod, Steve disappeared back into the apartment. That was weird. About as weird as the look on Mrs. Barnes's face, a kind of amused glint in her eyes which reminded Becca once again of Bucky.

"Steve's a nice young man," she noted. "The world hasn't always treated him right, but despite all that, he's got a good heart."

"Um, yeah," agreed Becca. She was definitely missing something here.

"Be careful with it."

Oh. _Oh_. Becca supposed she shouldn't be surprised since she'd already faced this concern from Bucky. The Barnes family seemed to cluster around him like hens around a baby chick. Make a move to hurt him, and they'd peck her eyes out. Although, Mrs. Barnes seemed more intimidating than her son, even when he'd had a metal arm.

"I would never do anything to intentionally hurt Steve."

"After seeing you together, I don't doubt that anymore." Mrs. Barnes got to her feet, wiping the back of her dress. "Steve's the trusting sort, but he's not fool enough to let someone get close who didn't deserve to be there. But he's also never had a woman treat him the way you do, and I don't think he knows quite how to respond."

"He does all right," Becca assured her. "He still rambles on occasion, but I think he's figured out we're not so different." Which mean that Peggy would have less legwork to do when she showed up in his life. You're welcome, Peggy.

As she got up, Becca yanked the knife free with mild embarrassment. "I'll clean this."

"Don't you worry about it. Lord knows I've felt like giving the mud a good stab on occasion." Mrs. Barnes held out her hand expectantly, and Becca didn't feel like she had much of a choice but to hand the knife over. "I love my children, but they are a trial at times."

Becca laughed. "As someone who was an unholy terror to their parents, I believe it. But Lucy is very friendly. And Becky's polite. And Bucky…" God, what could she say about Bucky? She was only supposed to have seen him once. "He seemed like a good man. I'm sure you're very proud of him."

"I am. I just hope…" Mrs. Barnes trailed off, anxiety written onto the lines of her face.

Without finishing, Becca knew Mrs. Barnes was worrying about whether Bucky would come back from the war. Guilt sank into Becca like a boulder knowing he wouldn't return. Mrs. Barnes would think she'd lost a son, the Barnes sisters, a brother. Two, in a way, since Steve wouldn't be coming home either. Their supposed deaths would be a painful blow. Becca wished she could reassure them that Steve and Bucky would live, that they'd find each other again in the future, that they had a chance to be happy. But her assertions would sound crazy, so she said nothing.

"Well, we should be getting inside," sighed Mrs. Barnes. "I'll get you a towel for your chair."

Glancing at her splattered dress and pantyhose, Becca realized she would need one. "Thanks. And thank you for coming out to talk to me. It helps."

"Of course." Mrs. Barnes set her hands on Rebecca's shoulders. "I lost my husband to pneumonia a few years back, so I remember how it hurts. Please come by any time you need, even without Steve."

Becca had to fight back tears. She was not crying again tonight. No way. "Thank you."

"I'll tell everyone you'll be in in a moment."

Alone again, Becca took a steadying breath in through her nose. She hadn't been around this many people wanting to talk to her and have a normal conversation since she was home. The rest of the night, she was going to enjoy the change.

Whether Mrs. Barnes had said something, or Steve, or Lucy and Becky were too nervous about her reaction, no one brought up "Montana" again. If they asked questions, those questions were about her job at the Wyndam or what she had seen of New York. Safe subjects. Becky talked about school that week, what she was learning and, naturally more important, her classmates. The big topic of conversation was Lucy's wedding, to which she extended an invitation. Becca wasn't sure if she should accept. Weddings were expensive, and this family wasn't exactly rich. Furthermore, weddings usually meant pictures. Photographic evidence of her existence would be bad. Declining flat out seemed rude, however, so Becca said she would have to check with her boss first.

Bucky's presence lingered in the room, even though he wasn't truly there. He came up in conversation, a round of smiles inevitably following. He was mirrored in the slide of Lucy's brown hair over her eyes, which she impatiently batted away. Becky wore the same cocky smile when she assured them that she had aced Friday's spelling test. And then, there were Mrs. Barnes' wide, pale blue eyes which she'd passed on to her son. It made Becca sad to think that in a few years, he would be just this, a ghost at the table, scattered across the faces and memories of his family.

And yet, for once, Becca couldn't stay sad for long. Someone inevitably asked for her opinion on this or that matter, or Steve would make a dry remark that begged for an equally dry response. Her ginger sponge cake was a success. The credit should have gone to one of Mrs. Gould's many cookbooks, but the praise still gave Becca a sense of accomplishment.

By the end of dinner, Becca was very full and utterly content. Goodbyes were exchanged, along with hugs and echoes of Mrs. Barnes' offer that she should visit. She left feeling like she had finally gotten to meet in-laws of a kind.

"Bucky's family wasn't exactly what I expected," Becca voiced as she headed towards the closest bus stop, empty cake plate in hand though Steve had offered to carry it for her. "But they were really nice."

"I thought you'd get along," said Steve with a pleased grin. "See? There was no need to be nervous."

"I wasn't nervous." A complete and utter lie. Becca had been extremely nervous. She'd debated over her tiny wardrobe for over an hour. Unfortunately, getting out the dirt stains was likely to take just as long.

"Uh huh. They liked you fine."

Becca sighed in relief. "Thank god. I wasn't sure if my panic attack put them off."

"Panic… attack…" Steve repeated the phrase as though the words sounded foreign. Because the phrase probably hadn't been coined yet. Becca winced. Whoops. "Is that like… you feel panic when someone talks about something bad that's happened to you?"

Becca wasn't sure how much she should explain. A general sense couldn't hurt she supposed. "Sort of. Panic attacks can be like that. They're a little different for everyone, but… they're a bit like having bad asthma."

"So you can't breathe?"

"It definitely feels like you can't. It feels like you can't do anything, like you don't have control of your body anymore."

"Heck, I didn't…" Steve jammed hands into his pockets, guilt plain on his face. "I knew talking about – I knew it made you feel bad. I didn't know how bad. I'm sorry."

Trust Steve to act like her panic attacks were his fault. She may as well use this opportunity. "You couldn't have known. But now that you do, if we could avoid talking about Montana?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

"Thanks. Onto better and more interesting subjects!" Becca gestured to the air, opening up the conversation for anything.

After a thoughtful minute, Steve offered, "Looks like our troops might not be landing until Tuesday."

Becca rolled her eyes. The universe was apparently determined to poke all her sore spots tonight. "Steve, I swear to god, if you say another word about the war right now, I'm going to add another bruise to your collection."

"If you could aim for under my right eye. That should even them up nicely."

"Tch." Becca leaned down to press a quick kiss there instead. "I know this is pointless to say, but I wish you'd be more careful." Seeing him cut up and bruised, while not an unfamiliar sight, made her hurt for him.

Frowning uncertainly, Steve promised, "I'll try."

Laughter bubbled up, affectionate, rueful. "Liar."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Bucky does have a sister named Rebecca in the comics, as I'm sure many of you know. I've nicknamed her Becky for obvious reasons. Lucy is mine, mine, mine, as is Kathy who was mentioned briefly in an earlier chapter. I like to think that being surrounded by sisters is one reason Bucky is so good with the ladies as well as one of the reasons Steve has such respect for women.**

 **Many thanks to Katie for sharing her struggle with anxiety and panic attacks and allowing me to ask a billion questions.**

 **See y'all soon when another familiar face will be making an appearance.**

 **(N: Exactly, exactly. But this is all very new for Steve, so he's currently trekking through confusion-land.)**


	10. The Brains And The Brawn

Becca held a tin can carefully between her hands as the subway car jerked along its track. There was nothing particularly special about the can, but it had been wrapped in newspaper and tied with a strand of twine like a present. The special part was what lay inside the can. It wasn't bread, the can's original content, but something much, much more precious. She shifted the can from one hand to the other. Funny, she had borne the weight without problem since December. Yet, in her hands, the can felt weighed like lead.

There were risks with the plan she had formed, a lot of them, millions probably. Foremost amongst them was changing the world forever. She had been trying to avoid the butterfly effect. Well, this could be taking a swarm of butterflies and throwing them into the wind. But Becca was desperate.

Two months had gone by and here she remained, stuck in the 1940s. No one had come for her. Steve might not even know where to look, if – the big if – the Avengers had killed or captured Thanos. The library had no further books about time travel or Norse mythology for her to pick through. The possible J.A.C.K. lead had yet to pan out, and she was growing doubtful it ever would. Besides, while she had convinced Mr. Foster that there was a delay in publishing due to a number of the editors being drafted for the war, that excuse would only last her so long. Becca had needed a contingency plan. Which was why she was heading to Queen with her cell phone.

After much thought and nights agonizing, Becca had come up with a plan that hinged on a man she knew very little about. She would have to trust him, potentially the future of the world, which scared the bejeezus out of her. Steve had trusted him once though, and in the end, his trust was the deciding factor. And if – the second big if – her plan succeeded, maybe the Infinity Stones could be used to leap back and erase what she was planning to do.

The subway car came to a halt at the stop she needed. Becca got off and ascended to street level. She had visited this part of Queens three days back to ask a couple of questions. The streets were busy at this time of day, unsurprising as she was in an industrial area. She walked slowly until the building came into view. There she stopped. Last time she'd walked right past the building, not recognizing the old company logo. Now, the sight twisted her stomach in knots. Last chance. She could turn around.

But Becca couldn't turn away if there was even the slightest possibility of getting home. She strode forward, leaving all her second-guessing behind, and entered Stark Industries.

The receptionist looked quite bored when Becca entered, her eyes sliding toward the door and following Becca's path lazily. "Good morning," she drawled. "How can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Stark," said Becca.

The receptionist swallowed, looking much more alert. Becca had to wonder if other women came by often with business that was more extracurricular than academic. From what she'd heard, in his younger years, Howard had the same effect on most women as Tony did.

"I've got an invention I think will interest him."

The declaration seemed to put the receptionist at ease, although she hiked her eyebrows skeptically. Becca had a feeling the skepticism stemmed from her gender. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I'm willing to wait."

"We have a patent department that assesses all incoming projects," the receptionist stated, sounding bored again. She set a form, clipboard, and pen in front of Becca. "Fill this out with your name, the name of your invention, and what it does. I'll take it to our patent department, and someone will be out to speak with you shortly if we're interested."

Becca hesitated over leaving a paper trail, but filling out the form was her only way forward. She hadn't really expected to waltz in and get a meeting with the head of the company right way.

"Okay, thanks."

In an empty lobby chair – another random item which was more comfortable in the future – Becca examined the form. Others had put their inventions down on the same form, so she filled out the next available slot. Name, that was easy enough.

 _Rebecca Read_

Okay, what was she going to call her cell phone? Rebecca thought about what little she had seen of phones in the Forties and all the things that made them inconvenient.

 _cordless telephone_

Figuring out what to write about her phone's uses was difficult. No one in the patent department would believe a device could do all the things her phone was able to do. Even if they did, that was too much information to be handing out to unknowns.

 _Small telephone which does not need a cord or telephone wire of any kind to make calls. Is still capable of reaching across the globe._

There. The description sounded impressive by today's technological standards without being overly detailed. Becca handed the formed to the receptionist and waited. She felt sick. Despite having skipped breakfast out of nerves, her mouth had that slick texture it got before she puked. God, she really hoped she wouldn't puke in the middle of the lobby. Becca realized she was chewing her lip. Mentally letting out a string of curses, she licked her teeth in case any lipstick got on them and reapplied the layer of bright red, her old-fashioned battle armor.

"Ms. Read?"

The man who called her name looked to be in his early forties, dark hair going grey, lanky. His accent sounded faintly Mediterranean. Greek maybe. Becca got to her feet. Was his smile indulgent? She might actually puke all over him if she had to swallow any of that bullshit right now.

"Yes, hi." Becca strolled over and shook his hand. Yup, she was fairly sure that was an indulgent smile. Her stomach lurched, and she barely contained a burp.

"Hello. I'm Nicolas Costakis. If you'll follow me, we can have a little talk about your cordless telephone." Mr. Costakis beckoned her to follow with a waggle of his fingers.

Definitely indulgent. More even than puking, Becca felt like growling in frustration. He could be skeptical without being a jerk about it. Instead, she summoned a cheerful expression and followed.

Becca had expected Stark Industries to be more open, lighter. The corridor cramped in around her, the paint a kind of dandelion-mustard yellow hybrid broken up by polished wood. Maybe she was subconsciously projecting how Stark Tower would be in the future. If she thought for a moment, most buildings seemed sturdier now. Wide open areas with large glass windows had yet to come into fashion in the business sector. No black and white. No feng shui.

Mr. Costakis might not have the faintest clue about feng shui, but his office did give the sense of being balanced. Not perfect order, but enough that Becca got the feeling everything had a place. Her place was seated in the chair across from his desk while Mr. Costakis folded his hands, ever smiling. He didn't even bother to sit down. Obviously, he didn't presume she'd be here long.

"So you say you invented a telephone that works without a wire?"

"Yes," replied Becca, feeling like a child trying to tell a parent that they'd discovered the Holy Grail.

"May I see it?"

Instinctively, Becca gripped the tin tighter. The fewer people who saw her cell phone, the better. Plus, Mr. Costakis wasn't acting like he believed her, so why should he get to see this futuristic piece of technology? Unfortunately, it was her only proof. She unwrapped the tin, took off the rubber band and paper she had used as a lid, and drew out her cell phone.

"Please be careful," she pleaded as she handed it over. Her phone, wedding ring, and clothes from the day of her arrival: they were all Becca had of home.

Mr. Costikas made a great show of being careful. "Heaver than it looks."

"There's a lot inside. But it's much less heavy than the telephones we have now." Not that Becca had ever picked up a telephone in this time period, but they _looked_ heavier.

"This is true." He turned the phone upside-down. "Where do you speak into?"

"The bottom. You've got to turn it –" Becca reached out and rotated the phone for him. "Like that. The holes you talk into are very tiny."

"Mhm. And how would I make a call?"

Under no circumstances was Becca going to attempt to explain touch screens. "You see that button on the side?" She indicated the volume button. "You press up, the numbers go up. You press down, the numbers go down. The other buttons are for volume and turning it on and off."

Mr. Costikas indicated the camera on the back. "And this?"

"That's where the signal comes in."

"The signal, of course. And how does it run without a wire?"

"On battery. If I could…" When he returned the phone, Becca opened the back and took out the battery. "See?" She replaced the battery once he nodded.

"Well, it looks very professional," Mr. Costikas conceded. "Can I make a call with it right now?"

Becca winced. "No."

"No?"

"It only works with other cordless telephones."

"Ah. Do you have other cordless telephones?"

"No. I had others, but they were destroyed when my house burned down not too long ago. I'd need funding to make more, but I promise you, they worked. I tested them." Becca knew it sounded like she was making an excuse, but she had no choice. Her cell phone didn't work anymore. "All I'm asking is for five minutes with Mr. Stark. Think about it. If Stark Industries came out with phones this size that everyone could carry around and use whenever they wanted, it would revolutionize the telephone industry. Everyone would want one!"

Mr. Costikas stared at her a long moment. "You're married, Mrs. Read? I see you have a ring." Becca nodded, touching her wedding band. "And is your husband aware of this cordless telephone?"

"Yes." Playing the sympathy card couldn't hurt. Becca bowed her head solemnly. "Well, he was. He passed away in the fire. He always believed in my work."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

"But… _you_ were the one who invented this cordless telephone?"

His implication couldn't be missed. Oh, so not only did Mr. Costikas doubt the phone could work, he doubted a woman could invent such a thing. Of fucking course. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of Becca's eyes.

"Why did you bring me back here if you didn't believe a cordless phone was possible?" she snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could think twice.

Mr. Costikas looked startled at her anger. "It's company policy. We can't turn anyone away if they claim to have invented something new."

"Is it also company policy to be condescending to people when they show you their work?"

"No, ma'am."

"This is all I have left; do you understand?!" Becca spat, holding up her phone. Aggravation and desperation melted together, heating her skin. Blood pounded in her ears; her vision blurred at the edges. Mr. Costikas gaped at her. "This is all I have left! This phone! My phone! This is… I…"

Becca pressed her fingertips to her forehead and breathed. She needed to calm down. If she began ranting, she'd come across as a crazy person, and that would get her nowhere. While Mr. Cositkas stammered out apologies and awkwardly handed her a handkerchief, Becca rethought her tactics. Politeness hadn't worked. Yelling only seemed to make Mr. Costikas want to calm her enough that he could shoo her away. Much like the jeweler had tried to shoo her out the door on her first day, but she had found a way to get through to him. Well, if it ain't broke.

Her voice changed from a heated screech to cold steel. "Do you know who I am?"

"I – Pardon?"

Becca drew herself up. "I trust you have heard of the Rockefellers?"

One made up story, several not-so-subtle threats about bringing all hell down on Mr. Costikas' head for the way she'd been treated, and several indignant sniffs later, Becca managed to exact a promise to have a letter delivered to Mr. Stark. She thought Mr. Costikas would pass along the letter. He seemed sufficiently cowed by her haughty authority. Whether Mr. Stark would read the letter or respond was another matter, but she had done what she could.

On a sheet of clean paper, Becca described her cell phone. She also added how the phone could send pictures and written messages, making sure Mr. Costikas was busy fussing with papers on his desk and not watching her write. The additional uses should pique Mr. Stark's interest. She knew he dreamed big about technology's potential. At the end of the letter, she left her address. Hopefully, she'd get a reply.

Then, there was nothing to do but seal the letter in an envelope and say her goodbyes. Mr. Costikas seemed very glad to see her go. He had been too condescending for Becca to feel all that sorry for him.

Becca checked the mail every day. When the Goulds asked what she was looking for, Becca told them that she planned on making an investment in Stark Industries and was waiting on a reply from the company. From then on, they would inform her right away when she returned from work that no, no letter had arrived today. She had plenty of time to worry about her letter to Mr. Stark and the next course of action should a response not be forthcoming.

In an attempt to distract herself, Becca ended up visiting Steve more often than usual. He'd gotten sick again. With a bad cold or the flu, she wasn't quite sure. Regardless, Becca bundled him off to bed, a task made all too easy by Steve's tiny frame. He protested of course, but wouldn't physically fight her as she pushed him along.

Becca got a measure of satisfaction from getting even for those times in the future when she had come down with a tiny cough or other minor illness while Steve was home. He'd pick her up while she squirmed and settle her on the couch or in bed depending on how bad he deemed her illness.

"You'll get better faster if you rest," Becca informed him now, throwing one of his favorite lines back at him. Steve frowned in irritation, remaining defiantly seated on top of his blankets. "Otherwise you'll just run yourself into the ground."

"This'll go away soon. I'm sick like this every win –" Steve got out before have a sneezing fit.

Becca shook her head. Was this how she looked to Steve in the future? Frighteningly sick and frail, uncomprehending that the person trying to take care of them was responding to some primal urge to protect their loved one?

"Just do it for me. Please?"

To her relief, the plea worked. Steve kicked off his shoes, albeit unhappily, and crawled beneath his blanket, muttering under his breath. Becca caught the tail end about how he thought that this was no better than having Bucky around. Obviously, she was doing the right thing.

"I know you're stronger than you look," Becca promised him. "Running around while you're sick isn't going to prove anything. Except that you're a stubborn, reckless idiot sometimes, which I also already knew, by the way."

Steve seemed momentarily taken aback, and Becca used the opportunity to quickly duck out of the bedroom to wet a washcloth for his forehead and nab a chair from the kitchen. He hadn't moved when she returned.

"Thank you for staying in bed."

"Well." Steve grinned. "I'm only a stubborn, reckless idiot sometimes."

They passed the hours talking or playing pinochle and crazy eights with a battered deck of cards. Steve had sketches to work on. Once, Becca brought a library book – _Mary Peters_ ,the first of a popular family saga the librarian had recommended; no time travel or aliens – and she read while he sketched in comfortable silence, and it was almost like being home.

Four days later, Steve had improved drastically. Becca had allowed him to sit at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket for the past two visits instead of whisking him into bed. She had been dropping by every day or so, but now that he was better, she figured that wasn't necessary. Not that any of these visits had been strictly necessary. Without her, Steve would have muddled through, but Becca much preferred being with him to being on her own. She tended to feel less depressed that way. And who knew, maybe her care had spared him some sick days. She liked to think so.

However, Becca suspected she'd paid a price and was coming down with whatever he'd had. Her nose was getting stuffed up, and she sneezed a lot. If she ran a fever, then she'd know for certain. In any case, she couldn't wait to go to sleep after returning from a long morning at work. But it was not meant to be.

"Here she is," said Mrs. Gould when Becca walked in the door.

Becca halted in her tracks. A stranger sat in the living room. He appeared too young to be a friend of the Goulds. A relative maybe? Although, he didn't look much like the Goulds with his watery green eyes and sallow skin. His glasses were on crooked. They, along with his mustaches of wild bristles, gave him a frazzled air.

Mrs. Gould introduced him. "Rebecca, this is Mr. Spencer from Stark Industries."

"Pleased to meet you," said Becca, holding out a hand. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

Mr. Spencer had to set down his coffee before shaking her hand. "Not too long, Mrs. Read, but if we could be on our way? Mr. Stark would like to speak with you. And he requested you bring your cordless telephone."

"Of course. Just give me a moment to change."

Feeling positively giddy, Becca hurried into her bedroom. She pulled off her work uniform, tossing it on the bed to be dealt with later, and wiggled into her nicest dress. The dress had become too big on her, so she had to cinch a belt around the waist. Her cell phone had returned to the money belt on her leg for safe keeping. Carefully, she unpinned the belt and put her phone into the bread tin she had kept in the hopes something like this would happen.

After thanking the Goulds for their hospitality, Mr. Spencer directed Becca outside to his parked car. She asked him a couple of questions as he drove and found out that he was Mr. Stark's butler. Although from the harried look in his eye at the mention of Mr. Stark, Becca thought the occupation wouldn't stick much longer. She was a teeny bit disappointed that she'd come too early to meet the original Jarvis, but she would choose getting home over that opportunity any day.

Mr. Spencer parked the car in a lot beneath Stark Industries, a small lot by the standards of modern parking garages. The feeling of excitement had worn off, leaving nerves in its place. Having a sneezing spell so violent that they had to pause in their walk did little to set Becca at ease.

The office was empty when they reached it. Mr. Spencer glanced around anxiously; then asked her to wait while he fetched Mr. Stark. Becca waited, perching on an available seat and attempting in vain to blow her nose. His office was nice, much roomier than Mr. Costikas' office. And yet, the room had a barren quality, like Mr. Stark didn't come in often.

When Mr. Spencer reappeared, he asked Becca to follow him to one of the workshops. Now the workshop exuded the life Mr. Stark's office had lacked. Metal, glass, wires, gizmos, gadgets; the tools of an inventor were scattered everywhere. Machines sat along the walls with rows and rows of dials and lights like in all the movies with old-time technology. A group of workers clustered around a large metal construction in the corner, which spat out angry sparks. Three workers gathered around something set on a table, listening to a man who jabbed at several points on the table as he spoke at lightning speed.

Well dressed, same hair as Tony, same eyes, and being listened to attentively; it wasn't hard to guess the man was Mr. Stark. He finished up his directions over a vest with metal coils attached to the front before addressing Becca.

"Glad you could make it."

"So am I," said Becca, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "Thank you so much for meeting with me."

"I couldn't pass up an opportunity to meet a good-looking woman. And you kicked up quite a fuss from what I heard."

Even though Mr. Stark looked amused rather than angry, Becca flushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry about that. I felt I was being treated unfairly."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Stark indicated the tin can in her hand. "Is that your cordless telephone? Looks an awful lot like a tin can."

Becca dumped the phone into her hand and offered it to him. Inspecting the phone closely, Mr. Stark wandered away from the trio working on the coil-vest.

"Will that be all, sir?" asked Mr. Spencer.

"Unless Mrs. Read would like something," said Mr. Stark breezily, half-paying attention. Becca shook her head, and Mr. Spencer strode off in a rush. "He'll be resigning soon. I'd give him another week. Can I open this?"

Becca needed a second before she realized Mr. Stark had abruptly changed topics. "Yeah. You just pull –"

Without waiting for finished instructions, Mr. Stark pried her phone open. He set the separate parts on a work table, examining each piece. "How does this work?"

"You turn it on, and that battery there powers the phone. Then, the phone works like a radio. It converts everything to waves, which go to phone towers, which other cordless phones can pick up on." And that was the extent of Becca's knowledge about how cell phones operated.

"Where's the transmitter?"

"The transmitter?"

"Yeah, the transmitter. There's no antenna."

"Oh. Um, the transmitter's in there. It's just very small."

"Huh." Mr. Stark lifted his head and called to one of the workers. "Donahue, bring me that magnifying glass, would ya?"

At least he was taking her seriously, unlike how Mr. Costikas had treated her. However, Becca knew they'd very quickly reach a point where she wouldn't be able to answer Mr. Stark's questions. She hovered over his shoulder as he adjusted the magnifying glass stand, speculating on what the parts inside might be.

"This must be your battery," Mr. Stark guessed, setting the battery aside. He paused over the SD card. "And this?"

After making sure no one appeared to be listening in, Becca confided, "It's an external memory card."

Mr. Stark's eyes lit up hungrily. "External memory. You mean this device can store information?"

"Yup. Pictures, different programs. Whatever you want basically."

"How?"

They'd finally hit the road block Becca had been dreading. No point in lying about science to a science genius. "I don't know."

"You don't know." The fire behind his gaze dimmed as Mr. Stark set down the SD card. "You didn't invent this."

A statement, not a question. "No."

"Who did?"

"Honestly, I don't know that either."

Mr. Stark folded his arms and leaned against the work table. "So, what, you find this lying on the sidewalk somewhere and try to sell it off?"

"No. This phone's mine. I bought it, and I know what it does because I've seen it work. I'd show you but the battery's dead, and I don't have the charger."

"Charger? Are you saying you can recharge the battery?"

"Yeah. There's a charger. One end goes into a wall socket, the other end goes here." Becca pointed out the slot. "It's more than just a wire though, and I don't know any more than that."

"Hmm."

A minute ticked by as Mr. Stark gave the pieces of her phone another glance. Becca's chest felt tight, and she felt a lot sicker. However, she knew her symptoms hadn't taken a turn for the worse. The short breaths and the increased pounding in her head stemmed from anxiety that he could throw her out at any second. She wished that she had taken the time to learn about how cell phones worked. The knowledge had been only one internet search away! But like basically everyone else, she'd taken her phone for granted.

At last, Mr. Stark said, "Do you know why I really asked you here? I could have thrown away your letter."

Becca shrugged. "Because you found the idea of a cordless phone intriguing?"

"Partly. I also figured with all you said this cordless telephone can do, you'd either have to be bonkers or telling the truth. But then you come here and admit that you didn't invent this device and you don't know exactly how it works. So why did you want to see me?"

"Because I need your help."

"With what? Telling you how this device works?"

"No." This was it. Her one shot. Was this how Steve had felt when he'd confessed to being Captain America? Because Becca could hardly breathe. "Do you believe that time travel is possible?"

Clearly, she'd thrown him for a loop. Mr. Stark's eyebrows rose. "I believe that anything is _possible_." He smiled at her, but Becca didn't think she'd lost him yet. She could see the spark of curiosity, tiny but definitely there. "Don't tell me this cordless phone is actually a time traveling device."

He hadn't said no. Becca was going to go ahead and take that as a good sign. She had hoped with how Stark Industries looked to the future and its reputation for "fringe" science, Mr. Stark secretly wanted to believe in time travel.

"No, but what if I told you that my phone is from the future?"

"Then, I'd ask for proof," Mr. Stark huffed. "No scientist worth a darn is going to accept anything like that as more than a theory unless he sees some results."

Becca nodded. She'd expected this. "I know about Project: Rebirth." The smile vanished from Mr. Stark's lips. "It's a project meant to revolutionize the war by using a serum to create super-soldiers. You're heading this project along with a scientist named Dr. Erskine. Somewhere in Brooklyn there is a pawn shop, which is actually a cover for the operation. I can even describe what that facility looks like vaguely. Um, lots of mint green. There's a kind of pod in the middle where the soldier goes. There a control panel of the floor, lots of big systems with lights on the wall."

Before she could summon up any other details, Mr. Stark held up a hand to stop her. "Come with me."

Becca scooped her dismembered phone into the bread tin before hurrying after Mr. Stark. He took them into his office and shut the door before rounding on her, all traces of friendliness gone.

"How do you know about Project: Rebirth?"

"Because I'm married to a super-soldier." Becca held up her left hand as though her wedding band's existence would be enough verification. "In the future. I'm from 2017."

"This is what happens when you take government contracts," Mr. Stark muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "Leaks." He looked up at her sharply. "Who are you working for? The Germans? The Japs?"

Okay, this method was obviously going nowhere. Time to reveal her second ace-in-the-hole.

"You're working on a flying car," Becca stated. "I'm not sure what model, but it's red. You're going to debut it at the science fair next month, but you're having problems with the car. It's only going to hover a few seconds before falling." That was a story from Bucky, and not Steve, who had gone to the recruiting station during the display.

Sheer disbelief crossed Mr. Stark's face. "That's my private project. No one's even _seen_ …" Becca wanted to cheer. Bingo. She happily took a seat when Mr. Stark waved her towards one. He sat across from her. "Tell me."

So Becca told him her story, starting from when she had met Steve. Not everything. She used first names only and omitted details here and there, like how Steve was actually from this time and not hers. Sometimes Mr. Stark asked her questions or got up to pace around. Anyone who came to the door was turned away. He had a drink and then another. He offered her some, which Becca accepted. Scotch wasn't her favorite, but all the talking had made her thirsty. Around his fourth scotch, he insisted she call him Howard. Another good sign? Maybe. Hopefully. Even getting to finally tell her story had come as a relief.

"If it's true," said Howard following a long silence. "If it's all true, why would you come to me for help?"

Becca considered before answering. "Because I know your son."

Howard jumped as though she had smacked him. "My son? He's not –"

"A super soldier? No. But he is the smartest person I know when it comes to science. And a good person. It took me a while to see that behind all the asshole, but he is. Word was he's a chip off the old block."

"Huh." Howard mulled over his empty scotch glass. "What's his name?"

"I think it's better you find out when the time –" Becca sneezed. "When the time comes. But I will tell you that you're going to get an amazing butler eventually."

"Really? That'd be swell." While pouring another glass, he asked, "Do we win the war?"

Becca shook her head. "I'm not going to answer any questions like that. I'm trying to change history as little as possible, so that I don't accidently cause something terrible to happen. I've already risked a lot by talking to you."

"Because what you do might cause a chain reaction if you alter the course of events."

"Exactly. Which reminds me, please don't tell anyone about this. Or write anything down." Although she felt bad for the ruse knowing he'd be dead, she added, "Not until at least the next century."

"All right. You have my word. Not that I think anyone would believe me anyway." Howard squinted at her. "Hold on, does this mean I can't see your telephone again?"

With a grin, Becca acknowledged, "You really are a genius."

"Aw, just one more look?"

"Nope. Sorry."

Sighing in disappointment, Howard lounged back in his chair. "All right. Not sure if I believe you or if you're out of your mind, but our first step should be checking out the alley where you 'appeared.' See if there's anything there."

Becca beamed at him. She'd gotten one of the world's greatest scientific minds on her side! "I've already visited a couple times, but I didn't find anything."

"You might not have been looking in the right places. I've got a couple inventions that might help. I'll have to get them… Get some things in order… There's that project…" Howard drifted off into silence, and Becca let him think, hardly daring to breathe in case the noise disturbed him. Suddenly, he sat up. "I'll send Spencer for you on Tuesday, provided he's still around. Two. No, better make it three. That work for you?"

"Absolutely." Becca would have quit her job to make herself available if needed. "Thank you so, so much. I can't even begin to explain how much it means to have your help."

"I can imagine."

Tony was a chip off the old block all right. "I'll see you Tuesday then."

"Hey." Becca paused in the doorway, glancing back into Howard's speculative gaze. "If your husband's from the future, that means you're not really married yet, right?"

She huffed in amusement. "Goodbye, Howard."

* * *

A series of rhythmic knocks on the front door drew Steve up from the kitchen table where he'd been reading a book about battle tactics. Rebecca stood on the other side, a relief after she hadn't shown up on Saturday. Steve would have checked on her if he'd known where to go. His fretting had clearly been unnecessary, however, because Rebecca looked as happy as she had on the day they'd visited Saranac Inn. Only this time the sight of her glowing made his lips turn up a wide smile, mirroring hers.

"Hi. Sorry I didn't come on Saturday," she apologized. "I was feeling a little under the weather, and I didn't want to get you sick again."

Steve guiltily wondered if he'd gotten her sick in the first place. "That might've been my fault."

With a dismissive wave, Rebecca said, "Don't worry about it. I knew the risks and stuck around regardless. Anyway, _Casablanca_ is playing over at the Bow Tie, and I thought you might like to go. Word on the street is it's very good. Might even become a classic."

"Sure."

Steve lifted his coat and cap from their hooks and pulled them on. From in a coat pocket, he drew out the key to lock the front door.

"Did you find another good book?" When Rebecca glanced at him questioningly, Steve clarified, "You're happier, like when you read that golf book."

"Oh." Rebecca clicked her tongue in understanding. "No book, but I did make a friend."

"Yeah? What's her name?"

" _His_ name's Howard."

Steve's stomach plummeted. "Huh."

"Huh? Don't tell me you wanted to be my only friend," Rebecca joked, tugging teasingly at a corner of his coat.

"No, but –" For once, he managed to catch himself before rambling into something uncomfortable.

"Buuuuut?"

Steve shook his head, secretly bothered by the fact that Rebecca never lit up like this because they were friends. He doubted that Rebecca mentioned his name with the same quiet reverence. Resignation squared his shoulders along with anger and a touch of…

"You're not jealous, are you?" Rebecca asked.

Too quickly, Steve blurted, "No."

It just didn't seem fair that this Howard could brighten her day after they had met only once, while he so rarely could do the same. He wasn't jealous of Howard, who was probably tall and handsome and knew how to talk to dames. Steve clenched his hands into fists and stuffed them into his pockets. All right, he could admit he was a little jealous, but only as jealous as he was of the rest of the male population.

"Don't worry," Rebecca soothed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You're still my bestie."

"Bestie?"

"Whoops. That's um, that's Montanan slang for 'best friend.'"

Strangely, the assertion didn't make Steve feel much better. "Out of two whole people, that's a real compliment." Rebecca's arm dropped away, and when he glanced up, she looked hurt. He had hurt her. "I'm sorry. It was a joke." And now Steve realized what a terrible joke it had been. He wished someone would tell him how come he always mucked up when talking to women. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Rebecca shrugged. "I know. It's – it's fine." The smile she gave him was tiny and dim compared to the one with which she'd greeted him.

"It's not _fine_ ," Steve argued, furious with himself on her behalf. "I should've known better than to say something dumb like that."

"It's really okay. Besides, you weren't wrong."

"That's not the point! I should've thought for a second before –"

"Okay." Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "I think you're getting kinda worked up, so maybe –"

"– saying something so gosh darn insensitive. You shouldn't –"

"– we need to – Did you just say 'gosh darn?'"

"– let me off –"

"Steve."

"– 'cause I'm –"

"Steve!"

Steve finally stopped, noticing as he did that his throat had contracted. He had almost worked himself into an asthma attack. As he gulped in deep breathes, Steve spotted a man watching them. He held the man's gaze, daring him to laugh. But Rebecca was the one to break into giggles, which turned into full-bodied laughter. Steve eyed her uncertainly, squaring his jaw. He didn't think she would laugh at him, but then, he didn't know what else she would be laughing about.

"You're too much, you know that?" said Rebecca, her voice barely audible through the hand pressed to her mouth. "If there's not a ready target available, you pick fights with yourself." She wiped away the tears of laughter on her cheeks. "What am I going to do with you? If we go to the movie theatre, you'll probably jump the guy at the concession stand for giving you a weird look."

From the sound of things, Rebecca found the amount he got into fights funny, not that he got into the fights in the first place. Steve figured that was all right.

"I wouldn't," he protested. "But if he looks at _you_ strange..."

"Oh, shush." Steve grinned as Rebecca pushed him lightly. "Well, seeing as I'd like to enjoy my movie experience uninterrupted, I think we'd better let you vent first. Hmm…" A group of boys ran across their path, attempting to shove snow down each other's coats. Rebecca followed their progress with worrying interest. "Now there's an idea, even if your aim isn't the best."

Rebecca's idea fortunately didn't involve running around packing snow into their coats. It involved throwing the snow.

In a park not far from his apartment, Rebecca declared that they were going to have a snow fight and shepherded him off to make his snow fort. Steve got down on his hands and knees, feeling foolish amongst the children throwing snowballs and running around. Soon, however, he was too busy working to create a decent fort to feel silly. Some of the snow closer to the ground worked as packing snow, while the top layer was too light and fluffy.

A snowball burst against his neck. Rebecca had already completed her snow fort. "It's a fort! Not a work of art!" she called, ducking behind her uneven mound of snow as he threw a handful of snow back.

As soon as the snowballs started flying, a group of children ran over, wanting to join. Then, Rebecca aimed a well-placed snowball at a forlorn young couple on bench. They'd startled at the impact, but when she waved them over, they came. And they weren't the only ones. Rebecca threw a bunch of snowballs at people passing through the park, and while some hurried away in disgruntlement, more and more people joined in. With the war going on, it seemed he wasn't the only person who needed to let off steam.

The forts expanded; yells and snow filled the air. Steve got a cheer and clap on the shoulder from his neighbors when he hit a formidable member from Rebecca's team who'd braved the no man's land for ammo. He found Rebecca in the crowd. Face flushed with determination, she tossed him a wink. He got a funny feeling then, the kind he got sometimes when Bucky flashed a particularly cocky smile. But a snowball came whizzing towards him, and Steve had to duck behind the fort, the feeling lost in the commotion that followed.

Eventually, Rebecca indicated that they should leave to catch the next showing of the picture she wanted to see. The game continued on without them while they headed for the welcome warmth of the cinema, which they reached in the nick of time.

 _Casablanca_ might have been a good film. It might have been a dynamite film. But Steve had trouble paying attention, and not through any fault of the makers of _Casablanca_. First, he noticed a couple kissing two rows in front of him, which made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Then, he glanced around and realized how many couples were in the theatre. More than usual, he thought. Steve snuck a furtive glace at Rebecca. She was utterly focused on the screen. If she enjoyed the cinema, maybe she'd come back. Maybe he should suggest they come again. Or maybe she'd want to go with Howard. He imagined Rebecca sitting beside a man who looked not unlike Bucky, dressed sharp with his arm around her and a wolfish grin on his face. He didn't like the image.

Rebecca's whispered voice in his ear startled him. "Are you gonna eat any of the popcorn?"

"Uh, no. Here." Steve gave her the box.

"Thanks."

As she munched contentedly on the popcorn, Steve resumed stewing over Howard. Rebecca was no country mouse, but she was sweet and kind underneath. There were plenty of gorillas in New York who might try and take advantage of a woman all alone. Where had Rebecca met Howard? And how? He wished he'd thought to ask.

The questions stacked up so that by the time the picture had end, Steve was bursting with them. He gave a lukewarm answer when Rebecca asked for his opinion and made himself wait through her detailed analysis, which took them all the way onto the bus.

"Okay, what's on your mind?" Rebecca asked once she was seated. "You've got that look."

With the overwhelming number of questions crowding his mind, Steve needed a moment to settle on one. "Where'd you meet Howard?"

Rebecca tilted her head. The question had been unexpected. "In Queens. I was looking for help with a problem."

"What problem?"

"Um, my alarm clock broke. It started running backwards instead of forwards."

To Steve, that sounded like a strange way to make a friend. "And he fixed it?"

"He's promised to try, so I'm hopeful. He's very smart."

"He is?"

"Yeah. And he's got a lot of resources."

"Like tools?"

"Mhmm. And money."

Steve's grip on the bus bench tightened as his image of Howard grew increasingly, infuriatingly closer to the ideal man. "And how much do you know about him?"

"I –" Rebecca's eyes widened as though she had just solved a riddle. "You're _worried_ about me. Oh, now I get it. You'd think after living – Well. You don't need to worry. Howard's not going to do anything bad. And if he did, I think I know a guard dog who would be all too happy to defend me." She chucked Steve under his chin. "I've heard he bites pretty bad."

Steve bared his teeth agreeably, and Rebecca laughed.

"You'll let me know if he bothers you?" he checked.

Rebecca nodded, which reassured him. "You'll have to get in line, though. Trust me, I have no problem punching a guy's lights out."

"That's fair. I can wait."

"What? You mean you're not going to pass up an opportunity for a fight? I'm shocked."

"Maybe someday I will," Steve said with a shrug.

"No," Rebecca sighed. "No, you won't." She looked off out the window, her amused expression drooping.

Steve frowned, not liking that he'd made her sad for the second time that day. "Do you want me to? Stop fighting, I mean."

Rebecca jerked her head back toward him, mouth parting in surprise. "You've never asked me that."

"Well, I'm asking now."

Fiddling with her purse strap, Rebecca thought. She was thinking hard, too, because she chewed on the corner of her lip, which she only did when distracted. Steve hadn't expected her to take the question so seriously. She had confided to him that she wished he was more careful, so he figured she'd know the answer pretty quick. And yet, he waited, watching her think.

"There aren't enough people willing to stand up for what's right," stated Rebecca, enunciating each word with cautious care. "I think the world needs good men willing to fight. I think you could do it less often maybe, but I wouldn't ask you to stop." She hesitated a second, but then nodded. "You're true to yourself. I like that about you." She squinted out the window. "I think I have to change buses soon. Do you know which stop I get off at to pick up a bus to Brooklyn West?"

"Uh, yeah. You can get off at the next stop."

While Rebecca fussed over getting herself together, Steve eyed her pensively and wondered. Because after all that thought, she hadn't answered his question.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Like Becca, I was a little sad to discover this was before Jarvis' time, but at least there's Howard. I'll do my best with him, though I don't have anything near his capacity to understand science. But there will be science-ing next chapter when the visit the alley. And Steve will continue to be definitely not jealous. See you then!**


	11. The Verge Of Discovery

Mr. Spencer showed up after 3:00, seeming thoroughly disgruntled at being late. His glasses were even more crooked than last time he'd come for her. Becca wondered if he would quit working for Howard before they would tip and fall off his nose in utter despair.

"Rebecca, there you are," greeted Howard from the backseat of his car, as though she had been dawdling instead of waiting anxiously by the door. "You ready to rediscover the future?"

His mentioning the future made Becca instinctively glance at Mr. Spencer, who had shut her door and was circling the car. "If you could please _not_ make any comments like that."

"Huh? Aw, don't worry about Spencer." Howard firmly patted that back of the driver's seat as Mr. Spencer slid in. "He doesn't have a clue what we plan on getting up to, right Spencer?"

"Not this time, sir, no," said Mr. Spencer, starting the car.

Howard turned up his palms, the matter settled. "Unless you'd like to swing by my place first. Have a couple of drinks. Maybe –"

"I'm married," Becca reminded him. "Happily."

"Later then."

Becca rolled her eyes. Hopefully his persistence extended to scientific pursuits, too. "You said you were gonna bring some things? The car's kinda empty."

"They're in the trunk." Howard perked up, eyeing her purse. "Say, you didn't bring that cordless telephone, did you? If I could –"

"No."

Howard sighed. "You need to lighten up, Rebecca. What, is there no fun in the f–"

"Montana," Becca quickly supplied.

Too late, she wondered whether using another state would have been better. Steve and Howard never became close friends, but it was conceivable that Steve might mention her. If he did and gave further details, Howard might get suspicious; especially since she'd told him her husband's name was Steve. She probably shouldn't have told him that. Her only comfort was that Steve was a fairly common name.

"Right, _Montana_ ," Howard repeated conspiratorially. "You don't have fun in Montana?"

"We do." Becca did feel bad about snapping at him. She was just nervous about her knowledge of the future, and now his, leaking out somehow and wreaking havoc. Or finding nothing in the alley, so Howard didn't believe her anymore. "Sorry. I haven't told anyone else about Montana, and I just really, really want this to work so that I can go home."

Was it her imagination or did Howard's expression soften for a second? Becca wasn't sure because his eyes then blazed with the same hunger he'd shown when examining her SD card. "Well, believe me, I'd like to be the first man to figure out how to get you back there. Or is it forwards?"

Mr. Spencer's forehead was wrinkled in bewilderment when Becca glanced at him. His confusion set her at ease. "Maybe a bit of both."

As they drove, Howard peppered her with questions about "Montana," the majority of which Becca declined to answer. She tried to divert his attention by asking about projects he was working on. At first, Howard seemed suspicious, but when she informed him, "I'm curious if any of them might've made it to Montana," he opened up. She threw him a couple of bones if the inventions sounded familiar, but only a couple. After all, Stark Industries would become a powerful weapons company, and she didn't intend to add to the death toll.

At the mouth of the alley, Mr. Spencer pulled to the side. He unloaded several suitcases from the trunk, setting them delicately on the sidewalk. No one seemed curious. Howard had yet to achieve anything close to Tony's level of fame.

"When would you like me to return, sir?" asked Mr. Spencer. The car was illegally parked.

Howard shrugged like he didn't much care. "Just keep driving around the block until you see us."

"Very good, sir," sighed Mr. Spencer.

As he slammed the car door, Rebecca murmured, "He's going to drive your car straight off the Brooklyn Bridge."

"That was almost a joke," said Howard with a grin.

"I make jokes! I'm only a stick-in-the-mud when I need to be."

"If you say so."

They gathered up the suitcases and hauled them into the alleyway. There were fewer homeless people than Becca remembered. Some of them must have moved. Or died in the winter chill. Anguish burned like bile in the back of Becca's throat, and she squeezed she suitcases handles more tightly. Those people that were left, Howard bribed to leave for a few hours.

"Show me where you were exactly when you appeared," Howard instructed, so Becca wandered down the alley and thought back.

Was that how the fire escapes had looked? Were the windows right? Becca tried to line everything up in her memory, a difficulty since she had been disoriented and weak at the time. However, she was pretty sure that she could find the general area. When Becca reached the spot, she paced around. A wormhole opening up would have been too much to hope for, but maybe a weird tingle or a feeling of vertigo would be possible. Sadly, nothing changed.

"I came through right around here," she said, spreading her arms.

Howard took a turn pacing the stretch of alley, only he scrutinized everything closely. "Do you feel anything? Maybe a pull, like a magnet? Or a shock?"

"No."

"But when it happened, you feel like you came _through_ something?"

"Yes. It was like…" Becca had to think. Everything had happened so fast. "It was like someone grabbed my whole body and pulled hard. But only for a second. Then I was here."

"And how did you feel after?"

"Very dizzy. I almost passed out. And I threw up."

"You said something about an orange glow?"

"Oh, yes. That was gone. It was from the Infinity Stone."

"Right, right." Howard poked at a brick. "You never explained much about those."

"That's because I don't know much about them," Becca confessed. Steve had been so busy dealing with Thanos that he hadn't had much time to talk. "They're these stones that existed before the universe was even created. Each has its own power. The creation of the universe scattered them, but Thanos found them all and put them in a gauntlet."

"Are you saying that by 2017, we'll have discovered exactly how the universe was created?" Howard seemed so excited by the prospect that Becca almost hated to burst his bubble.

"Well, if someone did make that discovery, they certainly didn't tell me. So if we could focus?"

"I am focusing," Howard complained. "You said these stones survived the creation of the universe. It might've been important."

He had a point. Understanding how the Stones worked could help, but considering the Avengers hadn't figured out how with all their resources, Becca didn't think much of their chances. She was glad to see Howard opening one of the suitcases instead of asking more questions about the Stones. She leaned against a wall to keep out of the way.

The first device he took out looked rather like a Gameboy, but five times the size and with knobs instead of buttons. When he flipped a switch on the side, a screen lit up with a familiar pattern.

"Is that radar?" Becca asked. Howard nodded. At least she wasn't totally out of her league. Yet.

After walking around and fiddling with all the knobs, Howard put the radar device away with no results.

Next, he drew out a device that measured temperature, which more or less looked like a thick, fancy thermometer attached to a plastic cylinder. He paced back and forth, slower than he had with the radar, stopping occasionally and backtracking. The first time he stopped, Becca got excited, but it was a false alarm. Heat was coming out of a window. She fiddled with her purse and stayed quiet.

Then, she noticed something.

There was a spot Howard kept returning to with increasing frequency. He circled the area, held the thermometer up, then down low. He touched the ground, searching. The area got smaller and smaller.

"Come here," Howard requested finally, and Becca hurried eagerly over. "Stand right here."

Her heart was pounding in anticipation. As she blinked, Becca thought she might be standing in exactly the spot where she'd come through. "Did you find something?" she asked as Howard held the thermometer up over her head.

Instead of answering, he said, "Take a step back." She took the step. Howard lowered the thermometer marginally. "Huh."

Becca wanted to grab him and demand an answer. "Huh?"

"It's colder."

"The air?"

Howard frowned thoughtfully at the thermometer and nodded. "There's a patch of air exactly your height. It's wider than you; seems like it's spherical. And it's four degrees colder than the air around it."

Relief surged through Becca in a wave. They had tangible, scientific evidence. They had a _lead._ "What could cause the temperature to drop like that?" When Howard looked up, he seemed startled at her tears. He patted his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, holding it out with discomfort. Becca had to smile. What was it about woman crying that made most men awkward and shy? "I've got my own, thanks."

The handkerchief went back into Howard's pocket. "You were telling the truth, weren't you?" he realized. "You really are from the future."

Becca retrieved a handkerchief from her purse. "Yeah."

"Well, I'll be damned," Howard murmured. He cleared his throat. "Pardon my language."

"Swear all you want. It's not quite as big a deal in the future. Not where I'm from, anyway." Once she'd cleared her nose, Becca repeated, "So, what could've caused the temperature drop?"

"I don't know." Howard smiled in determination, eyes lit with that hungry fire. "But I'm going to find out."

Device after device was lifted from the suitcases as Howard set about testing the cold patch. He investigated electricity and magnetic fields and radiation and lots of other scientific areas that Becca knew only vaguely about. She asked preliminary questions whenever a new device came out, but didn't understand a lot of his answers. Science had never been her strong suit. Of course, she could have asked for clarification, but she thought it better to let him concentrate.

A lack of results seemed to be frustrating him, until Howard took out a device that read the direction of light. At least, that's what Becca took from his explanation.

"Look! Can't you see what the light's doing?" Howard exclaimed, as though the result was blatantly apparent.

Feeling like an idiot, Becca stared at the construction of mirrors and dials set on the ground and tossed up her hands. "I am looking. But sadly, I'm not a science genius. You're going to have to explain. Pretend like I'm five."

"All right." Howard ran a hand through his hair. He'd been doing that a lot. His hair was a mess. "Light travels on a straight path until something interrupts it."

"Okay." That much Becca could remember from science class.

"This device can read the trajectory of the light which _should_ be coming from the sun above us and maybe some reflection off the windows."

"I take it it's not doing that?"

"No." Howard rested a finger against one of the dials, which could have been pointing to anything as far as Becca was concerned, except that his touch bordered on reverence. "Something in this cold spot is _bending the light._ "

That sounded like an important discovery. Becca would have figured so anyway, since Howard was regarding his light device like a favorite Christmas present. "But you don't know what's bending it?"

"You're a hard lady to impress, you know that?" remarked Howard, picking up a pad of paper to jot down notes.

"In my defense, I've seen a lot of weird shit." Becca smiled as he paused mid-scribble. "Although, when your first pickup line is about my marriage, you set the bar pretty low. Maybe I should be more impressed."

Howard finished a note and tucked the pen behind his ear, returning her smile. "You know, you're starting to grow on me."

"Don't get too attached. This plant's got her roots elsewhere. Speaking of which." Becca nodded at the light device. "What's next? More gadgets?"

"Yeah, but nothing I have with me. I'll run some more tests, let you know what I find."

"Sounds good."

It sounded _great_. Part of Becca wanted to insist on coming along, so she could be here if Howard made any more important discoveries. However, she wasn't likely to be any help. If anything, she might hold him back by asking unnecessary questions. She'd been patient for this long. She could be patient while he ran further tests.

"Okay, I'll pack this up," said Howard, toying with a mirror. "You can start taking the suitcases to the road so Spencer can see us. Assuming he hasn't driven off that bridge."

"Roads?" Becca set her hands on her hips. "Where we're going, we don't need roads."

Howard blinked at her. "Are there not roads in the future?" He snapped his fingers. "It's all flying cars, right? I knew it."

"Actually, I was quoting – Never mind." There was no point in explaining _Back to the Future_. Becca didn't know why she'd felt the need to quote the movie, when there was no one but her to appreciate the moment. "Let's go, doc."

* * *

A project had come through the WPA to put together a public gallery highlighting the spirit of America. Steve had been surprised to have a cartoon of his chosen, and pleased. He might have done something on his own to celebrate, if the important people in his life hadn't taken up the responsibility. Mrs. Barnes had made him a molasses cake, a treat usually reserved for special events like birthdays and graduations. She and the girls had shown up at his apartment to surprise him with the cake the day after he'd told them the news. They had promised to come to the gallery, even though Steve had assured them that there was no need to go through the trouble.

When he told Rebecca, she pulled him into a hug, which happened so rarely that Steve never had time to react and so continued to be flustered by his face pressing into her breasts. She seemed not to have noticed, too busy getting on her coat so they could go out for celebratory drinks. Mindful of his promise to Bucky not drink too much – they'd gotten ripped together once and Steve's heart had nearly given out – he had one drink. Although he kept a close eye on her, Rebecca ended up tipsy. He insisted on seeing her home, tailing her stubbornly when she argued. As she entered her apartment, Steve hardly heard the "I'll see you at the gallery" because her goodnight kiss had landed partly on his lips causing all the blood to rush to his ears. He stammered something at the closed door, "all right" or maybe a string of incoherent syllables. It was only when the bus driver hiked a curious eyebrow at him that Steve realized he was smiling broadly.

Steve plopped onto a vacant seat. He watched the door in case someone got on who needed his place on the bench, but his mind wandered. Thinking back, he smiled an awful lot around Rebecca. Not the kind of smile like when a good remark came to mind or he'd saved up enough to go to a baseball game. The kind that crept up unexpectedly and remained unnoticed because it felt as though the smile belonged there, like he'd been born with that smile and all he needed was the right person to bring it back out. Like Bucky. Like Rebecca. Steve supposed that's how he knew he'd chosen swell friends, right? Friends were supposed to make you smile. Lord knew he tried to make them smile. He thought of Bucky's smile, cocky and amused, lips pressed together. Rebecca smiled with all her teeth, her tiny bow lips stretching to three times their size, thinning as if they could hardly contain all that happiness. Steve didn't know what his own smile looked like. He'd never really had a reason to examine it before.

When he got home, Steve did just that. He looked in the bathroom mirror and smiled. Closed lips like Bucky, only Steve's smile pulled higher on the right side. His smile was lopsided, that figured. Even his smile didn't function right. Steve sighed, but then remembered how Rebecca had chided him earlier for looking too serious as he watched her sip from her third – and last – drink. Because he was worried she'd drink too much. And she was talking about Howard; he still made her light up.

"Enjoy your life now, Steve," she'd pressed. "You join the army and you're going to have to deal with so much shit, you won't know which way is up sometimes. So enjoy this. You got recognized for your artistic abilities. You're out with your friend, a smoking hot babe –" she tossed her hair jokingly, "– having drinks. And if you're lucky, I might even let you dance with me. But only if you stop looking so _gosh darn_ concerned."

Now when Steve looked up into the mirror, his smile had returned, but not quite the same as before. His top row of teeth was showing. His smile didn't look so lopsided this way. As if agreeing, the corners of his mouth lifted higher. Steve was so thrilled at the discovery that he plain forgot why he'd been so curious about his smile in the first place.

The gallery opened on Thursday in a rented spaced located in upper Manhattan. Any of the art could be purchased and those funds, along with a small entrance fee, would go towards the war effort. Of course, this kind of event attracted the types who had change to spare, so Steve stuck out like an old penny amongst shiny, new quarters. However, he wasn't the only one.

Most of the artists could be easily spotted, their attire dull and thread-worn. Their eyes, however, shone bright with pride as this visitor pointed to their work or that visitor tossed out a compliment, so unused to their talents being appreciated. And when they stood beside another artist, pride turned to passion as they discussed their work. Painters, sculptors, cartoonists – it didn't matter. Steve stood in one corner conversing about a charcoal sketch of fireworks exploding over a bayou with its creator, Lawrence, who had worked alongside him on a number of projects.

"Looks a sight more distinguished when they put on the frame, don't it?" noted Lawrence, a southern twang coloring his already rich voice.

"I guess it does," Steve granted. "It's like putting a tie on a picture. But like putting one on a good-looking guy, you know? I don't think your sketch needs it."

Lawrence laughed. "Not sure if it's true, but thank you kindly. Wasn't even sure I'd get picked. I think they must've wanted something southern." He nodded toward Steve's framed sketch, a cartoon of an eagle with star-spangled wings lifting Hitler off the ground with Mussolini and Tojo clinging to his legs in fright. "Knew they'd pick one of yours. You're always doing them political cartoons the people like so much."

"Seems strange seeing it in a gallery, though. Seems like it's not high class enough."

"And charcoal is?"

Steve tipped his head, conceding the point. "But it'll be worth something all the same."

"A'yup." Lawrence lifted his eyes to the entrance and squinted.

"Got someone coming?"

"The wife might come. Told her not to. Told her there'd be an entrance fee, but you know how a woman can get once she's got an idea in her head." Lawrence made a sound of exasperation, not quite a sigh, not quite a snort. "How 'bout you? That family of yours coming, even though Bucky's off?"

"Yeah."

"What about that Rebecca woman you've been going on about?"

"I don't 'go on' about Rebecca," Steve objected. Lawrence gave him a look. "I'm just seeing her a lot 'cause Bucky's not around." Lawrence gave him another look, this time raising his bushy eyebrows for emphasis. "Yeah, she's coming."

Grinning like he'd won an argument, Lawrence said, "I thought she might. Matter of fact, I think that's her now."

Rebecca was indeed making her way towards them. She waved in greeting, and Steve lifted a hand in response. Once she'd reached their corner, he introduced her to Lawrence.

"Not charcoal Lawrence?" asked Rebecca, surprising both of them. Looking suddenly uncomfortable, she continued, "Steve mentioned you. He said no one drew better charcoal sketches than you did."

"Did he now?" said Lawrence, pride straitening his back.

Steve couldn't remember ever saying so, but it was true. "Guess I must've."

After Rebecca fawned over his sketch for a minute, Lawrence excused himself to talk to another artist, sending Steve a wink as he departed.

"So where's yours?" Rebecca questioned. "No wait. I'll find it myself." She walked in the wrong direction, but when Steve tried to correct her, she shushed him.

They ended up making a loop around the gallery, stopping a few times so that Rebecca could admire certain pieces. She chatted with some of the artists, who were as pleased as Steve had been to find that she knew a bit about art and the associated terminology. Steve talked to a couple of those he knew, having to explain more than once that Rebecca was neither his wife nor his sister – an odd guess since they looked almost nothing alike, but her wedding band must have been the cause of the confusion. The insistence that they were friends was inevitably met with an undercurrent of skepticism. Rebecca appeared increasingly amused by it, while Steve grew increasingly irritated.

"Why does no one think we can just be friends?" he muttered, more to himself than Rebecca, but she overheard.

"Because they see a handsome man with talent and sharp humor and wonder how could I _not_ have married him."

The irritation receded at once as Steve stared at her, unsure if she was teasing. It had sounded like she was, a bit. Only a bit.

"You think I'm handsome?" The question broke free of his mouth unheeded. Steve cursed himself for asking something so pathetic. He sounded like the younger girls who had followed Bucky doggedly around in high school, desperate for his approval.

"Of course."

Rebecca tossed the phrase out into the air as though it were nothing, as though she were making a stray mark on paper, light and careless. But no woman had ever called Steve handsome before – apart from Ma and Lucy, but family didn't really count – so to him, the words weren't nothing. Not a stray mark, but the first pencil stroke of a sketch. He waited, but Rebecca didn't say anything further as she examined the painting in front of her. Then, Steve grew nervous. He felt as though she had handed him the pencil and paper with that one perfect stroke, and he had absolutely no idea what image she had in mind or, even more embarrassingly, how to draw. In fact, he was utterly useless at drawing. He trailed behind her from piece to piece, choking on indecision.

"This one!" Rebecca said, pointing at his cartoon with certainty. "This one's yours."

Her words unclogged the blockage of panic in Steve's throat. "Thanks."

Rebecca's eyebrows pinched uncertainly. "Um, all I said was it's yours. Haven't gotten to the compliment part yet."

"Right."

"Someone's not paying attention," she laughed, but Steve was glad that's all she thought it was.

Under no uncertain terms did Steve did want Rebecca to know that his response to her calling him handsome had been to thank her. That could have only lead to greater embarrassment, and the back of his neck already itched like he'd be lying in poison ivy.

"I do like it," Rebecca informed him after some contemplation, the lack of eye contact giving Steve a chance to cool off. "Your style's so… charming. It reminds me of reading the funnies as a kid, but your cartoons are like the funnies grown up. And I don't just mean the subject matter, you use all that stuff like cross-hatching and contours that give the cartoon more depth. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. I've learned some things about art over the years, but I know I'm still pretty hopeless."

"You're not hopeless," Steve protested. If anything, her reply had been insightful and honest. He'd liked hearing what she had to say. "I bet most of the people in this gallery don't know what cross-hatching is. Or contours."

"Maybe."

With determination, Steve addressed the woman surveying the painting that hung beside his cartoon. "What'd you think of the cross-hatching in this painting, ma'am?"

The woman glanced at him, then back at the painting. She blustered, "Well, well, it's very good, isn't it?"

Of course, there was no cross-hatching involved, but Steve nodded. "I thought so, too." The woman resumed studying the painting, relieved to have given a "correct" answer. "See?"

Rebecca smiled. "Yes, I see." She gave his cartoon another thoughtful look. "I like the eagle, too. He's very fierce. And I love Hitler. Wow, there's something I never thought I'd say. Let me rephrase."

"Too late," Steve declared, shaking his head. "Your secret's out."

"Oh no. Are you gonna alert the authorities?"

"I don't know. You're still an American citizen and all."

"Or am I?" Rebecca adopted a passable German accent. "Maybe I am a Nazi spy."

"Well, you're doing a horrible job at it. Spies aren't supposed to admit they're spies." Steve crossed his arms and pretended to consider her. "So you're no good as a spy. You weren't much good at being a swell. Is there anything you _are_ good at being?"

"Yeah," Rebecca huffed. "Someone who puts up with your smart mouth."

Steve would have made a comment, but they were interrupted by the arrival of the Barnes women. Hugs were traded, and the Barneses exclaimed over his cartoon as though the piece was a project he'd brought home from school marked with the highest grade in the class.

"Rebecca, I'm soglad you're here," said Lucy once satisfied that Steve had received enough flattery. "I wanted to be sure you're coming to my wedding on Sunday."

"Um…" Rebecca winced. "I… I really do appreciate the invitation, but I don't know if I can. I'd have to leave work early, and my boss didn't seem too happy when I mentioned it."

Becky added, "But we already made you a place card."

"You did?"

Mrs. Barnes clucked her tongue. "Which I told you not to do, not until you'd gotten a response."

"When we didn't hear otherwise, we just assumed you'd be coming," Lucy explained, pouting.

"Maybe you can come after work?" Becky suggested. "It would be okay if you came late to the reception. Lucy doesn't mind. Right?" Lucy shook her head, giving her consent.

Rebecca rubbed her coat sleeve, frowning indecisively. "Um… Well…"

"I think Steve would like you to come."

Suddenly, all eyes were on Steve, who had been hoping the conversation would pass without his being dragged into it. Becky's eyes were wide, telling him to pick up the hint. Lucy's pout became an encouraging smile. Mrs. Barnes wore a patient expression. Rebecca looked confused initially, but then she grinned like Becky's comment had been a joke that now made sense.

"She has work," Steve mumbled, at which Becky and Lucy looked equally disappointed in him.

"Well, I'd hate to let _Steve_ down," said Rebecca lightly. "So I guess I'll have to come."

The sisters squealed in delight and began talking about wedding plans (which Steve probably could recount in his sleep by now), what colors to avoid (the bridesmaids would be in blue), what Rebecca could cook (at her insistence), and on and on.

"They'll give her back to you eventually," promised Mrs. Barnes, setting a hand on his shoulder. "They're just excited that she's coming. More than any of the other guests, I think. Maybe even their brother."

"I can't wait to see Bucky," said Steve. And he really couldn't. He'd missed Bucky a hell of a lot.

"Neither can I. But maybe you're looking forward to seeing Rebecca there, too?"

"I see her plenty."

"Not at weddings," Mrs. Barnes laughed.

Steve was puzzled by her response. "What's the difference?"

"You'll see, love."

Steve was thrown back to a time when he was younger, sitting at the Barnes's table after school. Bucky had been talking all day about two girls in their class like they were beautiful, exotic creatures, and Steve hadn't understood what was so great about girls. They weren't all that unlike boys, as far as he'd been concerned. He had been frustrated that Bucky wasn't talking about the normal things like ball and what new adventure they were going to get up to under their mother's noses. And he was afraid Bucky wasn't going to want to be around him anymore.

Noticing he was upset, Mrs. Barnes had sent Bucky and the girls out to hang up the laundry and held Steve back. Tear of frustration welled up when she asked what was wrong, and he'd stared at the ground, ashamed to be crying.

"If Bucky likes girls, does that mean he'll stop liking me?" he had sniffed.

"Of course, Bucky will still like you," Mrs. Barnes had soothed. "You're his best friend."

"Not like those girls." Steve had wanted Bucky to talk about him like he talked about the girls. Bucky made them sound special. "Why does he like them so much?"

Smiling, Mrs. Barnes had smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You'll see, love."

And he had seen, eventually.

Steve hadn't grown much physically since then, but he met the comment with a wry smile instead of childish insistence that he wanted answers _now_. "I guess I will."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Science! I can't take credit for the science, but neither can I say what Howard is discovering without spoilers so... just know people much smarter than me are responsible for the principles I'm using.**

 **See you next week for Lucy's wedding!**

 **(N: Thank you! Howard's fun to work with. As a supporting character though because I don't know if I could ever write his brain.)**


	12. You'll See, Love

On the day of Lucy's wedding, Steve stayed after church to help set up. The basement had plenty of furniture, which needed to be dragged into place. Tablecloths were flung over tables, having been borrowed and washed the night before. Places were set, place cards leaning delicately against glasses. The names were written in Becky's neat script, but the first letter of each name had been stitched on tiny pieces of cloth and stuck to the card. While he was putting out centerpieces of fake flowers, Steve found his place card between those for Rebecca and Bucky. The sight of Bucky's name alone filled Steve with anticipation. It had been over a month since they had seen each other last, far too long.

Steve was currently attempting to hang up streamers. No one had given him the job, but he'd seen the forgotten rolls lying on a table. Since everyone else seemed busy, he picked them up. Using a chair, he had been able to hang most of them, but the chandelier was giving him trouble. He couldn't reach over it, and he was too nervous about throwing the streamer over. If he missed or fumbled instead of catching the roll, the streamer might tear.

"Need a lift?"

The voice belonged unmistakably to Bucky. Before Steve had a chance to respond, Bucky's arms clasped right below his waist and hoisted him up. Steve easily reached the streamer across the chandelier.

"Got it!"

Instead of lowering him to the ground, Bucky perched Steve on his shoulder like an oversized parrot and marched him across the room.

"Is this what they're teaching you in the army?" Steve asked, holding onto Bucky's vacant shoulder for balance. "How to haul civilians around on your shoulders?"

"Yeah. I told 'em it's easier to toss people over your shoulder, especially if they're struggling." Bucky squeezed Steve's side lightly, a reminder that he'd done that on a number of occasions when Steve had gotten into fights in their younger years. "But it didn't take."

Steve pinned the streamer to the wall amidst a dozen pinpricks where streamers had hung for previous wedding receptions. "All right. You can let me down."

Once on the ground, Steve grinned up at Bucky, and Bucky grinned back. Steve had been afraid that basic might change something between them, might make him resentful, might make Bucky distant. But he should have known better. It would take a lot more than weeks of basic to pull them apart. Still, seeing him brought deep sense of relief.

"It's good to have you back, Buck."

"It's good to be back." Bucky threw an arm around Steve's neck. Only Bucky could make a headlock seem affectionate, and only from him would Steve put up with one. "So how the hell are ya?"

"You know. I'm –"

"Bucky!" Becky's happy squeal. She and Bucky had always been the closest out of the siblings, despite their age and gender differences. Bucky released Steve as Becky came pelting towards him. He lifted her up, and she let out a sound that was half indignant huff and half laugh as he swung her around. Steve barely managed to duck out of the way.

"We'll talk later," Bucky promised as more family members crowded around him.

Steve nodded, although he was disappointed to have their conversation cut short so soon. He went to get the other streamer, but spotted one of the McCloskeys – Lucy was marrying Donnie McCloskey, whom she had met in school – fastening the streamer to the opposite wall. He didn't even need a chair. Instead, Steve busied himself checking that all the plate settings were evenly set.

"Boo." Too his embarrassment, Steve jumped, but Rebecca had spoken right into his ear. She laughed. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. I wanted to see if that would work for once."

"For once? You've never done that before," said Steve, straightening the fork he'd knocked askew. He hoped she wouldn't make a habit of creeping up behind him because his heart leapt painfully when startled.

Rebecca just shrugged and held up a pan with some kind of noodle casserole. "Where are we putting the good stuff?"

Steve took her up to the kitchen where Mrs. Barnes was supervising the inflow of food. While the women chatted briefly, Steve remembered Mrs. Barnes hinting that Rebecca would be different during the wedding. He looked her over. She was dressed different, dolled up, like when they'd gone out to her coworker's party. But prettier, which was strange because he'd seen her wear the dress before. Was that what Mrs. Barnes had meant? Steve had thought she'd been hinting at something more significant, but Rebecca seemed the same otherwise. Unless Mrs. Barnes had been talking about during the actual ceremony, in which case he'd have to wait and see.

Mrs. Barnes noted the time and shooed them out of the kitchen. In the entrance outside the chapel, Kathy was greeting guests along with the groom's father. Kathy gave Steve a brief hug, and he introduced Rebecca, who seemed surprised when Kathy exclaimed, "Oh, I've heard so much about you!" When they moved off to the gift table, Kathy gave Steve a knowing smile that made him flush.

At Lucy's request, Steve had sketched the ocean for her and bought a frame so she should hang it in the apartment her fiancé had bought. His present was leaning against a small pile of packages, and as Rebecca eyed the pile, she fussed over her envelope.

"I knew I should have bought something," she fretted, placing her gift on top of the one other envelope which wasn't attached to a gift. "I went to Macy's and talked to a sales person and everything, but I couldn't decide what she'd need. I figured money at least would be useful."

"It will be," Steve assured her. "Most of the people coming, they don't have money to spare or there'd probably be a whole stack of envelopes." He guessed that's how it was at her wedding.

Rebecca would never say so, but Steve wondered whether this whole affair would seem drab by comparison. He couldn't picture her having a gaudy wedding like the ones that made it to the papers, throw by the glitterati in outrageous excess while the rest of the country was getting back to its feet. She'd poked fun at such affairs that were thrown in the Wyndham. But if her engagement ring was any indication, her wedding would have been glitzy. Likely she'd have had nice china, flutes of champagne, a professional big band, and plenty of fresh flowers. Steve was about to ask, but changed his mind. He'd promised not to bring up anything to do with Montana.

They entered the chapel and selected a row close to the front. The benches weren't packed, but at least the first five on either side filled up, which amounted to sixty people or so. Steve had no doubt that more would show up later at the reception. When any kind of party was thrown, the neighborhood found out about it. No one begrudged a few extra guests as long as they behaved themselves.

Donnie came in first, fidgeting with his cufflinks, but his expression was more excited than nervous. Then, organ music signaled the procession. Lucy followed on the tail end, wearing a dress that had been passed down from her mother to Kathy and now her, altered for her petite frame. Bucky walked her down the aisle, the cocky edge of his smile softened by affection, the rest of him looking sharp as ever. They all sat when he passed Lucy over to Donnie, and the ceremony began.

Halfway through, Steve remembered to sneak a glance at Rebecca. She wore a smile, but her eyes were distant and sad. As she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek, disappearing against the deep red of her lipstick. His hand twitched, hesitated. Steve didn't want to draw attention, but he had never let Rebecca cry uncomforted. He wasn't going to start now.

Lightly, Steve touched her wrist. Rebecca took a deep breath and blinked several times. He felt her wrist shifting beneath his fingers and almost lifted his hand. However, she wasn't pulling away, but rather turning her wrist to leave an open palm. An invitation. They had held hands a couple of times, but only because Rebecca was dragging him along or wanted to get his attention. She'd never offered them freely.

A second of uncertainty passed, but Steve put his hand in hers. Rebecca folded her hand, threading their fingers together. Their hands were the same size, apart from his thinner fingers. He'd never noticed before. Her palm felt slick with sweat. Or maybe his own palm was sweating; it was getting warm in the chapel. The skin on her hand was rough from work, so the smooth metal of her wedding band provided a distinct contrast.

Steve thought of Rebecca's husband, the man with his initials whom Steve knew next to nothing about except that she had loved him a hell of a lot. He wondered if her husband would approve of the man who held Rebecca's hand in his place. He sort of doubted it, and that thought made his grip tighten in unconscious defiance. To his surprise, Rebecca squeezed back. He peeked at her out of the corner of his eyes and saw that the sadness in her face had lessened. Not by much, but enough that he sat a little taller and kept her hand in his until they clapped for Donnie and Lucy's first kiss as husband and wife.

Though Steve expected Rebecca to say something afterwards about them holding hands – not that he had the slightest idea _what_ she'd the say – she vanished off to the kitchen with nothing but a promise to meet him downstairs. He considered going with her to offer assistance, but a gaggle of women were already following the same path and the kitchen would be full. Instead, he went into the basement, feeling confused and not entirely sure why.

Bucky turned up first, having finished taking the family picture outside. Steve questioned him at length about basic, needing to hear first-hand what to expect. Bucky didn't seem all that interested and made several attempts to change the subject, asking what Steve had been up to. Rebecca sat down while Steve was recounting their trip to Saranac Inn. After a miffed comment about not being allowed to help serve food, she jumped right in on the story, elaborating on details he missed. As they talked, Steve noticed that Bucky's gaze kept flicking between them, like he was working out a problem. Steve could sense the problem himself, hovering right out of reach, but he finally had Bucky back. This evening wasn't supposed to involve problems.

Fortunately, Becky came to sit beside Rebecca, and the conversation drifted to basic and school, setting Steve at ease. Once the married couple and their immediate families were seated, food was served. Steve ate until he felt ready to burst. Lucy and Donnie cut the cake to much cheering from the room, and somehow he managed to have a small slice of that, too. He would have been content to sit there all night between his friends, but when the band picked up, Bucky suggested that he should dance with Rebecca, a suggestion Becky eagerly seconded.

"In fact, why don't we all go?" said Bucky, getting up from his chair. "Becky? Kathy?" He took Becky's arm and Kathy tugged at her husband. Steve couldn't have protested if he'd wanted to. He looked to Rebecca.

"This sounds like foxtrot music," she noted. "Let's show them how it's done."

It was odd. Steve had never thought he'd be one of the first people out on the dance floor, but here he was with Rebecca. And since this was their third time dancing together, they did a pretty mean foxtrot.

Bucky whistled. "You got good."

"I found a good partner," Steve replied, at which Rebecca smiled.

Soon they were dancing in a crowd. Mrs. Barnes spun by, doing a fast waltz with her cousin. Lucy and Donnie appeared for a moment, a flash of white amongst a tumultuous sea of color. Bucky had a girl Steve didn't know in his arms, and they swayed to the beat. But mostly there was him and Rebecca, doing the steps they'd practiced. Because when they were together on the dance floor everything else turned to black and white static while Rebecca was blinding color, beaming with unfettered happiness. And Steve was dancing with the best dame in the room.

They were interrupted by a man tapping on Rebecca's shoulder. "Can I have a dance?"

"Umm…" Rebecca bit her lip, considering.

"Just one." The man flashed a smirk at Steve, as he would to a child dancing with the adults.

Rebecca shrugged his hand from her shoulder. "No, thank you."

"Come on, doll. I'll show you what it's like to dance with a man."

Rage ignited in Steve, and he balled his hands into fists. But before he could do anything, Rebecca spoke. Her voice sounded sweet, but behind it Steve could hear venom.

"Actually, I've already got a man. But if I feel like dancing with a gorilla, I'll be sure to find you." Rebecca gave the man a thin smile and turned her head.

The man didn't move, unable to comprehend that he had been dismissed. "You're saying no? For _him_?"

"You catch on quick, for a primate."

"You can have your broad," the man snarled to Steve in disgust. "I like 'em with manners."

Furious, Steve hissed, "Apologize." The man snorted. "Looks like you're the one who needs to learn – Eurgh." Steve choked when Rebecca grabbed his collar as he made a lunge for the man, who quickly slipped into the crowd. He struggled, every instinct telling him to go after that idiot and make him apologize.

"Don't, Steve, please. Not at Lucy's wedding," Rebecca begged. "And not because of me. Don't you dare get hurt because of me." Steve gritted his teeth, but he stopped struggling. She loosened her grip cautiously. "Thank you."

Steve straightened his collar, humming gruffly in response.

"Now, if you really want to piss that guy off, dance with me. Maybe he'll learn a lesson when he sees that you've got me and he's got no one."

Steve thought that was a swell idea, nearly as good as getting an apology, so he returned to dancing. Soon his anger passed, and Steve found another distraction. Rebecca's lipstick was a darker red than usual, a rich color same shade as beneath the skin of a plum where the yellow fruit had been stained. Looking at her lips reminded him of how they'd felt against the corner of his mouth. Lipstick had a texture like Richeson paint, not unpleasant, but it was the soft warmth underneath he liked better.

The crowd shifted, forming rows of partners. Many of the older generation backed away, watching with amused tolerance.

"I don't know this one," Rebecca confessed.

"It's a kind of Shag," Steve explained, hoping he hadn't been ogling her lips too long. He knew the dance from clubs, but had only ever watched it. "I'm not too sure of all the steps myself."

"Well, in that case, let's just dance!"

Gripping both his hands, Rebecca brought their arms up over their heads and spun. Steve didn't have a choice but to do the same. He staggered, unsteady for a moment, but Rebecca continued on. She rocked to the beat, moving in a dance that was part shag, part waltz, and part made-up. Steve didn't think about his feet, or what he was doing at all really. She lead, he followed. He got so caught up that he forgot this dance involved changing partners.

A man suddenly appeared at Rebecca's elbow – one of Bucky's second cousins; he couldn't remember the name – offering a hand.

"Have fun!" she said, taking the proffered hand.

Steve wished Rebecca had told the cousin off instead, like she had the other man. Then he felt badly for wishing something so unfair. It was one dance. Besides, she deserved to dance with a partner that knew what they were doing for once.

So Steve passed from partner to partner. A few of the women attempted to teach him the steps, including Kathy and Becky. Some just dragged him along, like Lucy. Those who didn't know the dance well eyed him like a failure for not being able to lead them. That or engaged in a clumsy imitation of dancing which left both parties embarrassed.

Through it all, Steve's gaze kept returning to Rebecca. He almost abandoned one of his partners when he noticed a hand drifting too far down her back. However, Rebecca pulled the hand into place above her hip. Steve tried to keep an eye on the man in case he tried the same move with any of the other women, but soon lost track. Not of Rebecca, though. He saw her rolling her eyes as Bucky murmured something into her ear. Then, dancing with the youngest McCloskey, a boy of nine, who knew the steps better than Steve did. Then, spinning around in circles with a drunk man, lips pressed together in an effort to hold back laughter.

The memory rose again, those lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. If he hadn't turned his head that night, presenting his cheek at the last second as always – which she had partly missed anyway – maybe her lips would have pressed fully against his.

Steve tripped over his partner's foot and did an awkward hop to avoid sprawling. "Sorry."

His partner sighed, a tolerant sound, like she'd expected him to have two left feet. "Let's just make it through this."

"Sure. Yeah. Sorry."

Steve attempted to concentrate, but the tempo was so darn fastand his mind wouldn't settle. He'd never thought about Rebecca kissing him before, not even on that night. Now, he tried to stop, but it was like having a roof dripping water without being able to find the leak. And every time he thought he'd contained his thoughts and feelings about Rebecca in the solid metal bucket of what he _should_ be doing, another leak started. He remembered how her arms felt wrapped around him. He remembered what she looked like when she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, waves of dark blonde hair falling over her shoulders, eyelashes fluttering shut. He imagined her kiss landing on his lips instead, gentle, lingering. Not like when Irene Pozniak had kissed him on a dare in the sixth grade, his one experience with kissing. But perhaps Rebecca's kiss would become harder, not with rebelliousness but with the fierce intensity he'd seen from her.

His partner was letting him go, moving on. Another few seconds and he would be back with Rebecca. Steve was afraid that his thoughts of kissing her wouldn't go way by then, and she would be able to read them in his face. All too often, she seemed to know what he was thinking. So Steve did something unusual. He apologized to the woman waiting for him and fled, striding rapidly out of the basement and ascending the stairs.

The chapel was quiet, the music nothing but a faint echo. A few people were scattered on the benches, heads bowed in prayer or gazing at the cross in silent reflection. Steve chose an empty bench near the back. It didn't seem right to have thoughts about kissing in a chapel, but the fantasy remaining temptingly close. Forbidden, no. Just impossible. Steve clasped his hands to pray, then struggled over what to pray for. Eventually, he gave up, and looked at the stained glass, picking out names for all the colors.

His bench creaked as someone slid in beside him. Even without glancing, Steve knew it was Bucky. They had an ongoing joke about how Bucky was a bloodhound in a past life and so could always track him down. They sat beside each other for a minute without either saying a word.

Bucky broke the silence, his voice mindfully quiet. "You know, it's funny. I kept thinking if I brought you on all those dates, you'd find a dame who wanted to dance with you and then you wouldn't run off. But now there's one downstairs looking for you, and you still ran off."

"She'll be all right," Steve replied. "Rebecca's good with people so long as they're nice. She'll get along."

Bucky made an impatient sound. "I'm sure she will. That's not why I came looking. I want to know what's the deal between you two."

"There's no deal."

"No? So you don't have the hots for her?"

"I… I don't know."

"Yes, you do or you'd be saying 'no' instead of 'I don't know.'"

Steve leaned against the bench in front of him, eyes downcast. Bucky was right, he did know. He hadn't until tonight, but he knew now. One didn't go around thinking about kissing women they didn't like. Steve might not have experience with women, but he knew that much. He'd liked girls before. Steve looked helplessly to Bucky, who broke out in a broad grin.

"I knew it. So does everyone else apparently. The girls have been talking my ear off about it." Bucky bumped their shoulders together. "But you've always been a little slow." Steve frowned at the jab, but it was difficult to maintain when Steve was glad to have Bucky around to talk to again. "So what's the problem?"

What _was_ the problem? Steve mulled over the reasons he had run away. "I'm terrible with this sort of thing; you know that. I wouldn't know what to say. I'd muck it all up. And I'm just not… I'm not…"

"If you say 'good enough,' I'm going to take you outside so I can kick some sense into you," Bucky warned.

That wasn't exactly the phrase Steve had been searching for, but it was close. If he tried to explain how he felt in his own rambling way, Rebecca might finally look at him like most other women, like he was hopeless. Steve figured he could measure up to other men in most areas, if he was given a chance. But when it came to romancing women, he was a dud. He didn't want to be humiliated, and he definitely didn't want to lose his friendship with Rebecca. Also, there was Howard.

"I think she likes someone else," Steve informed him.

Bucky frowned. "Who?"

"His name's Howard. She met him – uh, maybe two weeks ago? Her alarm clock broke. He fixed it, or, he's working on it."

"Did she say she likes him?"

"No."

"Well then, how come you think she does?"

"She said he's smart."

"So are you. Some of the time, anyway, when you're not picking fights."

"No, like really smart. Book smart. And he's rich."

"If Rebecca cared that much about money, she wouldn't be hanging around with your broke butt so much." Bucky scratched his jaw contemplatively. "You ever think maybe she's trying to make you jealous?"

Steve clenched his hands in frustration. "You don't understand. When she talks about him, she gets… It's like she glows."

"She could be faking it."

"She's not that kind of girl," Steve retorted. He slumped, resting his chin on his fists. "Howard's probably good-looking, tall, and charming, too."

Bucky put an arm around his shoulders. "Finding someone who likes you, it ain't always about being charming, you know."

"Ha. Easy for you to say," Steve snorted. Bucky could be charming without even trying.

"Stevie, would you listen?" Bucky reserved the childhood nickname for important moments, so Steve shut up and paid attention. "When you fall in love with someone, it's not always like in the pictures. There's no violins playing and you're not gonna run into each other's arms. You might not light up whenever they enter the room. Sometimes love creeps up on you. You start noticing all these things they do, maybe funny things or maybe it's something as small as the way they put on their shoes. And those things make you smile, and you don't quite know why. Maybe you've known that person for a couple months or maybe for years, but one day it hits you that you can't imagine life without them. That you – that you love them. And you don't love them because they're perfect. You love them because they're _them_."

Steve had never been so conscious of the fact that Bucky had an arm around him. His skin was tingling at the pressure; each breath sounded horribly loud. He turned to look at Bucky, slowly, so slowly. For a split second, Steve thought he saw the tiniest glimmer of something in Bucky's gaze, something that made his breath catch. But then Bucky looked away and it was gone. Steve figured he must have imagined that glimmer. He glanced around, for some reason expecting to meet stares of disapproval, but no one was looking their way.

"Before I left, I told you to be careful around Rebecca," Bucky recounted, dragging Steve back to their conversation. "But I've seen how you are around each other now and – Steve, if she wanted a wolf, she's had a chance. There are a few of them down there, but she was searching for you. _You_. She's hardly looked at another man all night, and for sure, she hasn't looked at any of us like she looks at you."

Dismissing the Barnes women's opinions had been relatively easy. Steve respected them, but he had decided they were so thrilled that a woman was paying attention to him that they'd made up romantic notions. Bucky's opinion, however, Steve took more seriously.

"You think?" he asked, lifting his head. Bucky nodded, and Steve felt the beginning flutters of hope. "She did call me handsome."

Bucky held up his hands as though to say, 'Then what are you moping up here for?'

Steve imaged going downstairs, taking Rebecca's hand, and asking her on a date. Anxiety followed on the tails of that image. There were a hundred ways he could screw up, and he wasn't convinced she didn't have feelings for Howard. But if she said yes, then… there was still one problem.

"If she agreed to be my girl, I'd feel bad about leaving her."

"Why would you be leaving?" Bucky questioned, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

"'Cause I'm joining the army," Steve replied, as though the answer was obvious. "Her husband died, Buck, and she's real broken up about it. If I died too, that'd only make things worse for her."

"So don't join the army!" A couple of heads snapped in their direction. Bucky grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Steve allowed himself to be dragged into the hallway. "Do you know how many men would leap at the chance to stay home with their girl?"

"Then one of them can stay home, and I'll go. It's the right thing. People over there need our help."

"They're getting help. You can be me more help here."

"Doing what? Factory work?" Bucky had made the suggestion when Steve had first been rejected, and it still galled him.

Bucky shook his head, exasperated. "I'm talking about Rebecca. Look, when Ma lost Pops, she was hurt, but at least she had us. Rebecca has you."

"If I don't ask –"

"It doesn't matter if you ask her on a date or not, if you go, you'll hurt her."

"But Rebecca told me I should go if it's what I want."

"Because she thinks it'll make you happy, not because she wants you to go."

"But –" Steve was ready to argue further, but remembered how Rebecca had responded when he'd asked her whether she wanted him to stop fighting. She had replied that there weren't enough good people fighting, that he was being true to himself. But she hadn't answered his question, which was an answer in itself. What was going to war if not his fistfights on a larger scale? "But it's the right thing to do."

"Maybe. For you."

Steve had never been accused of being selfish before. The comment stung, especially coming from his best friend. He folded his arms and wished, for once, that Bucky would go away and leave him alone. Things had been complicated enough without his interfering.

"I'm sorry," Bucky apologized. "This isn't how I wanted – It's my one day of leave. Lucy's having a party, which we should be getting back to. Let's not fight, huh?"

Steve could hold a grudge when someone made him angry enough, but he could never hold a grudge against Bucky, especially with that pleading look on his face. Besides, as Bucky had pointed out, it was his night off, and Steve wouldn't see him again for weeks. He didn't want to fight either.

"All right," Steve acceded. "But you're a jerk."

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. "And you're a punk. Lucky for you, there's a woman downstairs who seems to like your sort."

"Well, I have been trying this new kind of flirting where I argue with her, get her sick, and say something dumb when she says something nice."

Bucky laughed. "And you said you're not charming." He steered Steve towards the stairs, but at the top, Steve planted his feet.

"I'll be down in a minute," Steve said when Bucky gave him a questioning look.

"Okay. I'll see you down there."

Music and chatter drifted up, overwhelmingly fast and loud. People in the chapel might stare since Bucky had raised his voice. Steve went to sit on the front steps of the church, which was quiet and abandoned. The night air felt good, cooling his sweat-drenched body. He leaned against the bricks. Why couldn't he have met Rebecca earlier? A year ago, the US hadn't been at war and everything would be less problematic. But the US army was going to Europe, and he _was_ going with them. Sure, he hadn't been going to recruitment stations much, or at all really these past few weeks, but after being rejected at a Jersey station, he'd figured that laying low would be a smart move. Then, the healthier men could go first, leaving standards more lax. And giving time for his paperwork to be buried.

And who was to say if Rebecca really liked him? Steve usually trusted Bucky's opinion, but he'd barely been around. Maybe Bucky, like the rest of his family, was just pushing because no woman had paid Steve this much attention before. Or perhaps she had liked him, but got tired of waiting for him to notice and moved onto Howard.

If she did like him, what then? Ask her to the movies? They'd already gone to the movies. Steve knew he'd have to be explicit so she'd understand it was a date, and that made him nervous. But say she accepted, what next? He'd go off to war. Steve was aware his chances of survival weren't too hot. She would cry if he died, of that at least, he was certain. Alone in her room with no one to hold her or leaning against Howard's chest. Somehow, he didn't like either of those options.

"What should I do?" Steve asked himself, God, the universe. Anyone who could give him a sign. "What's the right choice?"

No one answered.

* * *

Honestly, she hadn't known what to expect from a Forties wedding. The ceremony itself wasn't all that different. It had been sweet, though the reminder of her own wedding had been painful. The reception had some distinctions. The basement were the reception was held hadn't been decorated too much, but whether that was the time period or lack of available funds, she wasn't sure. Both, probably. The food wasn't catered, but she could never complain about a home-cooked meal. The food even tasted less bland than usual, or she could be getting used to it. Overall, the reception had a more relaxed, homey feel. After having been in this time for a while, she'd found out that the whole idea of everything in the past being completely uptight and structured was a myth. Steve and Bucky had told her so, but seeing was believing.

Becca was glad she'd come. She had almost turned down the invitation, but Lucy and Becky had made it obvious they'd be disappointed if she did. Luckily, photographs taken were of the families outside and the couple cutting the wedding cake, so she didn't have to worry about being caught on camera. The only hitch was Bucky's appearance, which she had not been expecting. Becca would have avoided him as much as she could, but the seating arrangements made it impossible. She decided not to bother, and let herself enjoy the evening.

At some point she lost track of Steve on the dance floor. She had liked dancing fine before, but since arriving in the Forties, Becca had discovered that dancing was the one time she could truly forget about her problems. But Steve not returning was enough of a concern that she stopped to find him. It wasn't like Steve to leave without saying anything. Her search grew increasingly frantic until she talked to Bucky, and he promised to find him.

After he left, Becca sat down at the closet table and calmed herself. She was being ridiculous. Steve was probably in the bathroom. Or saw someone who needed help carrying dishes. Or had spotted that asshole from earlier and picked a fight. Hopefully, not that last option, but she couldn't be sure. Sometimes being with Steve was like having an overly aggressive Chihuahua. While she waited for him to turn up, Rebecca chatted with the groom's aunt and uncle, who were sitting across the table. They were discussing their favorite dishes from dinner when Bucky came up behind her.

"Hi there." Bucky rested an arm on the back of her chair. "I'm gonna borrow Rebecca if you folks don't mind."

"Not at all," said Mr. McCloskey.

Rebecca got up from her chair. "It was nice talking with you. Enjoy your night."

"You too, dear," Mrs. McCloskey replied.

As Bucky lead them away from the table, Rebecca asked, "You found him?"

"Yeah. He'll be right down."

Rebecca would have been more comforted if Bucky hadn't led her away from the table. Surely if there wasn't a problem, he could have simply told her Steve would be back instead of taking them off to an unoccupied corner.

"Is Steve okay?" she questioned, fully expecting Bucky to tell her Steve was in the kitchen with ice pressed to a black eye or something along those lines.

"Yeah. Well, sorta." Bucky leaned against the wall, a pose which he made look as comfortable as lying down. "I understand you barely know me from Adam –" That was a laugh. Although, Rebecca supposed she didn't know this younger, less troubled version as well as future Bucky. "But I'm hoping you can do me a favor."

"Um, okay."

"It'd have to be between us. Steve would give me hell if he knew I was talking to you."

"Okaaaaaaay."

Bucky glanced over the crowd. Looking for Steve, maybe? "Steve's not too good around women. They don't always treat him right, and it hasn't given him much of a reason to be confident."

"Uh huh. I've noticed."

"I figured. So I was hoping you could help him out."

Whenever a Barnes got her alone, Rebecca seemed to find herself lost as to where the conversation was going. "You… want me to give him advice?"

Bucky shook his head. "Not advice. A push. An obvious push. In fact, an in-your-face obvious push or I think he'll still doubt himself."

"Bucky, I'm sure Steve hasn't told you, but I don't have many friends. I have no one to set him up on a date with."

"I'm not asking you to set him up on a date," Bucky contradicted, looking puzzled. "He likes –" He caught himself, but Becca knew with sudden clarity how he would have finished the sentence.

"Steve likes me?" she murmured in shock.

"You didn't know," Bucky realized, tugging on his tie in agitation. "Look, don't tell him I told you."

This was bad. This was _very_ bad. Steve wasn't supposed to fall for her, not yet. Peggy was supposed to be his first love and he would be meeting her in a few weeks. What if he still had a crush on her? Fuck. Becca was outraged with herself for not recognizing any of the signs. She'd dated him for four years, and yet somehow totally missed that he was developing a crush. Well, she hadn't been encouraging him, so he didn't know how she felt. Or did she? Earlier she had been holding his hand. She hadn't meant to hold it for so long! At first, she had needed that comfort, and then she just forgot to let go. Oh god, what else had she done unconsciously? And what was she supposed to do now?

"I won't."

If she pushed Steve away, that could be damaging. Becca didn't know too many details about what happened between him and Peggy, but what if she crushed whatever part of Steve had been receptive towards Peggy? Or what if in the future, he didn't want to spend time with her because she ignored or rejected him now? Not to mention how hard it would be for her to hurt Steve. Even if she stopped seeing him all together, she'd know he was hurt. Plus, he'd come check up on her since he'd insisted on walking her home that one night. Ugh, she was an idiot.

"But you do feel the same, don't you?" Bucky asked.

"I…"

What if she was receptive? Steve would only be around until next month. She could tell him it was okay not to wait for her. He might still fall in love with Peggy. Or maybe he wouldn't. She had no way of knowing how important his loving her was in shaping his choices. It seemed like Bucky's death was the one part that would make the largest difference. If they were together now, maybe he'd think her future self was a reincarnation like in those sappy love stories her mom liked to read. This could actually work in her favor. And she had to admit, there was a small part of her that felt overjoyed at the knowledge that no matter when she appeared in his life, Steve would love her.

There were risks if she loved him, risks if she spurned him. Becca had to do some serious considering of the consequences. For now, there was only one choice, which was to make no choice at all.

"I'm glad you're looking out for him," said Becca carefully. "But I think that Steve has more than me on his mind, and he has to make his own decisions. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah I do. But…" Bucky sighed. "I worry sometimes, is all."

Becca couldn't tell him that she knew exactly how Bucky was feeling, but she could do her best. "Because you care a lot about him. I understand."

Bucky scanned the crowd again. "Still thinking of going back to where you lived before?"

"Yes."

Bucky shook his head once, a nearly imperceptible jerk. "You two seemed happy. I thought – Hey!" He waved to Steve, who regarded them with suspicion as he approached. Maybe he suspected she liked Bucky. Becca wasn't sure if that would make things better or worse. "One of Donnie's friends was giving Rebecca a hard time. I had to step in."

"I could've taken him," Becca added for effect.

Fortunately, she and Bucky were much better liars than Steve. The suspicion drained as anger trickled in, tensing Steve's jaw. He glared behind him like he was ready to take on the entire room if necessary.

"Same guy as before?" he questioned.

"I took care of it," stated Bucky. He stood up straight and patted Steve on the back. "I'll catch up with you later. I left a dame waiting, which you know I hate to do."

"Okay. Thanks again," said Becca as he walked off, leaving her with Steve.

"That guy didn't – put his hands on you or anything, did he?" Steve asked, peered at her dress like he was expecting to find handprints, marks of a crime which he could make the imaginary offender answer for.

"No. I'm fine," Becca assured him. "Where'd you go? You disappeared on me." Did that sound too concerned? Great, she was going to start questioning everything that came out of her mouth now.

In an unconvincing tone, Steve said, "Uh, washroom." Suddenly, he looked nervous, and that made her nervous. Oh please don't let him ask her out now before she'd had time to think. "Rebecca, I was wondering, would you…" Becca tried to think up a reason to interrupt him, but her mind had gone a fuzzy blank. "…would you like to dance?"

Becca hoped she didn't look too relieved. "Sure." She almost took his hand, but managed to refrain. "Let's go."

As she turned away, Becca saw something she wouldn't have thought twice about if not for her conversation with Bucky. Steve's shoulders slumped for a second. He gritted his teeth and tilted his head, a little angry, a little disappointed. And Becca got the feeling that he had almost asked her a different question.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This chapter officially marks the halfway point! Thanks to everyone who has read, favorited, followed, and reviewed thus far. Lots of goodies still to come.**

 **(Crystal H: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed.**

 **N: Thanks! It's good to write some fluffy fluff. Enjoy while it lasts...)**


	13. Interlude II

Steve knew he had to make a decision, and fast. Most of his allies wouldn't wait. Thanos certainly wouldn't wait. He asked himself what Becca would want. Would she beg for him to turn on his team for the slim possibility of her return? No, she wouldn't. She had seen the magnitude of Thanos' power, watched the bodies fall. And yet, as soon as she was free, she had leapt at him. In that second, pride and horror had warred within Steve. Then, Thanos had set his hand on her shoulder, and horror won out.

But Steve had learned to contain horror long ago during the war, to lock down and fight on. Only Becca had freed him from its weight, bit by bit. She had done so much for him. She had saved him more times than he could count, in more ways than he could name. He had never told her that. Not often enough, at least. Didn't he owe her this rescue? Didn't he owe her the world?

And yet…

If he turned against his team, and if Thanos brought her back – which was by no means a certainty – the world might fall under the power of the Infinity Stones. Then, Steve would look up into Becca's eyes and see horror. There would be no time to help shoulder her burden, no holding her close, no murmured reassurances. There would be guilt, and then, there would be nothing. And even if they met on the other side of the pearly gates, Steve would know that he had failed her, that he had failed them all.

"Attack Plan: Scorpion." His voice didn't come out as strong as usual. Steve cleared his throat and repeated himself. "Attack Plan: Scorpion. On my signal."

The team spread out, maneuvering into position.

Thanos seemed unperturbed, but then, he held all the cards. He spoke slowly, as though talking to a disobedient pet. "I will give you a last chance, Captain." He flexed his hand and a patch of air glowed orange. "Think carefully."

The orange glow receded to the edges, and in the space between Steve could see Becca. She collapsed to the ground, body spasming as she dry heaved onto the pavement. Her eyelashes fluttered, and Steve worried she would faint, but her eyes remained open as she fell onto her side. The urge rose to reach out for her, but Steve knew better. He wouldn't be able to touch her, if this was even a real image. There was only one hope for Becca. They had to win.

Steve gave the signal.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I'm off on a trip to New York, so I'm afraid this will be all until next week. Thanks for your patience!**

 **(N: Thanks! I will neither confirm nor deny your theory because spoilers. But there will definitely be pain before all this is over, that I will say.**

 **Crystal H: Thank you! That is a lot of questions, and I'm not going to answer any of them haha You'll see! And I am enjoying writing this story immensely.)**


	14. Neither Fair Nor Certain

Becca counted the dirty towels and recounted them. One of the bath towels was missing. She didn't understand why so many towels got stolen when the guests must have money to burn if they were staying at a ritzy hotel like the Wyndham. The towels weren't even that nice. She had fluffier towels back home in the future. But some people simply had sticky fingers.

She made note of the towel on a list for missing items from the twelfth floor, which so far included three towels, a pillow, and a lamp. A freaking lamp! She was cleaning up after a serious kleptomaniac apparently. Unless someone had complained about the lamp and asked that it be removed, which was possible. She had heard a number of eccentric requests from Wyndham guests. One time, she along with two porters had to move all the furniture in a suite so it was facing southeast because that was the direction of the guest's house. He could "sense his wife" better if they were facing each other. Becca supposed that he could hypothetically have powers, but she thought it more likely he was nuts. At least he tipped.

Once Room 12G was straightened, Becca made a trip to the basement in order to drop off the trash and exchange the dirty laundry for fresh sheets and towels. As usual, everyone she passed ignored her except for Francis who offered a "Good morning, Mrs. Read." He was an older porter, really nice guy. Becca had talked to him a little when she realized how painful it was not to speak with any of her coworkers.

Alice and Helena, two of her fellow maids, were on laundry duty. They sat at a table in the center of the laundry room, folding towels as they exchanged stories about their kids. Becca nodded a greeting; they nodded back. Rather, Helena nodded, and Alice twitched in what might have been a nod or might have been a dismissal. Becca unloaded her cart into the two laundry baskets and picked up clean laundry from the long shelves on which it was kept. Loaded down with the necessities, Becca pushed her cart towards the door, but stopped.

A noise had come from inside the supply closet. Strange. And the closet wasn't usually shut. Becca reached for the handle.

"I wouldn't do that," warned Alice.

Helena flashed a disgruntled look at the door. "It's occupied."

Becca could hear that now. The noise was a man's muffled voice. Awkward. She would have walked away, but she made out a single word which gave her pause, spoken by a second man with a softer voice.

"No."

Again she reached for the door handle, ear pressed to the door. Alice and Helena were muttering in disgust about her listening in, but Becca held a hand to her other ear so she could focus on what was happening inside the closet.

The first man was speaking, his voice vaguely familiar. "Come… you know I'll… good."

"Please, I… to. I go, please."

The man with the soft voice sounded distressed enough that Becca threw open the door. The first man was Mr. Baudin, the head concierge. She had heard gossip saying that he was "a wolf," but never seen evidence of the label having any merit until this moment. He stood in the center of the closet, his belt undone, fly open. He had his hand around the skinny wrist of Carlo, the newest porter, who all the maids sighed over because of his beautiful features and friendly smile. He wasn't smiling now. His face was flushed with shame, and fear made each breath come in a gasp. Mr. Baudin let go of Carlo's hand immediately.

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled at Becca.

"What am _I_ doing?" she snapped. "What are _you_ doing?"

"I'm – I'm showing Carlo where to get the, uh, the –" Mr. Baudin glanced at the shelves. "– the Borax. One of the guests requested it, and you know his English needs some work."

Becca happened to know that Carlo's English was fine, although the fact was beside the point since Mr. Baudin's excuse was beyond stupid.

"Oh, and the Borox is in your pants, is it?" she questioned scathingly, staring pointedly at his tented underwear. "Doesn't look big enough to be a can of Borox. Doesn't look big enough to be much of anything." Mr. Baudin turned an angry shade of red as he did up his fly. "Maybe you're the one who needs to work on his English since you don't seem to understand the word 'no.'"

Mr. Baudin shoved past, knocking her against the wall. "You'll regret this."

"I'm so sure," Becca snorted, glaring at his back until he disappeared. What a sleazebag. She was definitely going to be reporting him to Mrs. Trace, the head housekeeper, at the end of her shift.

Carlo nodded to her gratefully before hurrying off. Of the two women who had stood by, but only Alice appeared abashed. Becca wished she could be more surprised, but she'd seen the kinds of behavior people turned a blind eye on. She had dealt with plenty of sexist comments and a couple of pinches to keep her job, but there was no way she could let this kind of sexual harassment happen. There were two witnesses. If Becca spoke up, she thought they'd follow her example and the management would have to act.

While tidying up rooms on the thirteenth floor, Helena came for her. "Mr. Hitz wants to see you."

Mr. Hitz was the hotel manager. Becca had met him once and seen him only twice more. She would like to think that Helena or Carlo went to him about the incident, but she had the nasty feeling Mr. Baudin was behind this summoning. She should have reported him straight away, but her shift was almost over.

"Don't worry," Becca soothed while Helena fidgeted with her skirt. "As long as we all say what we saw, he'll have to send Mr. Baudin packing. It's our word against his, and there're more of us."

Helena didn't reply and wouldn't meet Becca's eyes either. Not good signs. Becca hoped Helena would say her part. Mostly it was Carlo she worried about. Heterosexual harassment was barely acknowledged now. He might balk at admitting another man had tried to harass him.

Outside Mr. Hitz's office, Helena burst into tears. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, clutching her elbows. "This is a good job. I need the money."

Becca's stomach sank to her toes. "But what –" However, Helena ran off before she could finish.

This wasn't going to go well. Becca could already tell. But she knocked on the door, and Mr. Hitz called for her to enter.

A robust man with slick black hair and a face too small for his head, Mr. Hitz looked like the stereotype of a gangster. He didn't sound like one nor act the part, but Becca approached his desk feeling like she'd been dragged before the boss to answer for supposed crimes against the mob. She took the seat he gestured toward, his face grave with concern.

"Mrs. Read, there has been a serious accusation made against you," he informed her. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Well, I've got an idea of who made the accusation," said Becca honestly. "But I don't know what he's said I've done."

"Mr. Baudin has stated that you propositioned him several times. And that today you pulled him into a closet and attempted to undo his trousers."

Unbelievable. Becca lifted her chin indignantly. "I didn't. That's a lie."

"Three of other employees have attested that they saw you and Mr. Baudin enter the closet."

Becca was so shocked that she did nothing but gape for a few seconds. "But I never – Mr. Hitz, I promise you, I've never propositioned Mr. Baudin, or anyone else on the staff for that matter. I overheard _him_ harassing Carlo in a closet earlier today, so I stepped in."

Mr. Hitz sighed. "It was Mr. Silva who brought the incident to my attention."

Carlo came to him? Becca had thought the situation couldn't get more surprising. Why? She could have seen him keeping quiet, but this? Unless… unless Mr. Baudin had threatened him, said he was going to get him fired or – potentially worse in this time period – tell everyone that he was gay. So Carlo had told this fiction and Mr. Baudin had corroborated. Helena and Alice had been fingered as witnesses and, fearing for their jobs, they had told the same story.

It was completely unfair. Becca wanted to scream with outrage. Not simply because she had been falsely accused, but also because Mr. Baudin would continue to work here and prey on other employees.

Despite being aware she was on the losing side, Becca pressed on. "It's not true. They're just afraid. Please, bring them back in without Mr. Baudin, and maybe they'll tell the truth."

"No, I don't think so," said Mr. Hitz, shaking his head. "I think they've already come to me with the truth. I'm sorry, but this kind of behavior cannot be tolerated at the Wyndham. I'm going to have to let you go."

Becca couldn't believe she was being fired because she'd stuck up for someone getting harassed. Actually, she could, but it still sucked. "Okay." She got up. "But next time you hear about some incident involving Mr. Baudin, think twice. Guys like him are always repeat offenders."

"I'll bear that in mind." Considering his patronizingly gentle tone, Becca had her doubts. "I also have to tell you that when an employee is let go, we have to inform the other major hotels in the city."

Which meant there was no way she would get another job as a maid, or if she did, it wouldn't be somewhere that paid as well. That did it. She was giving Mr. Baudin the finger on the way out. Even if the gesture wasn't commonplace yet, Becca was sure he would get the gist.

"Fine. I'll get my things."

Becca picked up her coat and her purse from the employee's closet. Mr. Baudin was working the front desk, but a customer occupied his attention. She didn't feel like sticking around to tell him off. She could shout the truth at the top of her lungs in the middle of the lobby, and probably everyone would dismiss her as crazy. Damn freaking Forties.

Stewing in anger, Becca rode the subway to Brooklyn. She gave a curt nod to the Goulds as she stalked through the apartment to her bedroom where she flopped onto the bed. First, Steve had to develop a crush on her, which she decided to ignore and hope it didn't come up. Now this. Howard hadn't contacted her in over a week. Of course, everything would start falling apart at once.

After tossing a pillow across the room, Becca fished the remnants of her nest egg from beneath her dresser. She added the money from her purse and sat on the bed next to the sad, little pile. Her engagement ring had fetched $360, a considerable sum these days. But there had been rent, transportation, food, buying a small wardrobe, a few fun things like the trip to Saranac Inn, Lucy's wedding gift. She did have money coming in from work, but not as much as she was used to. Becca had fallen out of the habit of keeping track of expenses after moving in with Steve years ago. They weren't big spenders, and so there had never been much of a need. She had kept track initially when she'd gotten here, but the habit had slipped.

Becca counted up the money. She had $14.57 to her name. Rent alone was $11. She had paid last month's rent at the beginning of last week, so she had all of March to come up with more money. If she had kept her job, it would have been tight, but she could stay here. Unless she found another job with great pay, it might be a good idea to look at cheaper rooms.

The smart option would be to start right away, but Becca couldn't, not today. She put the money back and lay on her bed, wishing she was home where she had her own apartment and a job she loved with good pay and benefits. Neither of which she would ever take for granted again.

Someone knocked on her door, and Becca sat up. "Yeah?"

Mrs. Gould poked her head in. "Letter for you."

Becca hopped off the bed and took the letter. Her only guess was that Howard might be busy and decided to write her, but his address wasn't in the corner. There was no address in the corner at all, only a name.

 _J.A.C.K._

"Letter from a friend?" Mrs. Gould asked.

"I hope so," said Becca excitedly. "Thanks."

Reluctantly, Mrs. Gould left. Becca stood still without opening the letter. She had given up on this lead, left her forwarding address with Mr. Foster fully expecting nothing to come of it. But here was a letter in the same type as the one Mr. Foster had received. With bated breath, Becca opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper.

 _Dear Mrs. Read,_

 _I was delighted to receive word that you wished to speak with me regarding my reason for publishing Golf in the Year 2000, or, What We Are Coming To. I have waited a long time for such a response. I wish to meet with you in person. Of course, with the war on, traveling is an inconvenience, but I have secured passage to arrive in New York City on March the 24th. Give your name to the concierge of the Hotel Bedford at 3pm._

 _Sincerely,_

 _J.A.C.K._

 _P.S. The date is fitting. I do believe the universe is in agreement about our meeting._

The letter was a yet another mystery, all right. Becca had hoped for something less vague, to give her an idea if J.A.C.K. really was a time traveler. No such luck. But if he was, then she would have another person like her plus a rich genius on her side. Together, they might be able to figure out how to get home.

The hotel didn't sound familiar, but the date March 24th did. Becca dug through the dresser for her copy of _Golf_. She skimmed the pages, searching. There! The main character had fallen asleep on March 24th and woken up on that same date in the future. A coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe the universe really was aligning for her. There was that theory about time travel in which time would attempt to reorder itself for balance.

Becca read the letter over again before tucking it into the novel. 3pm on March the 24th at the Hotel Bedford. She could hardly wait.

* * *

Steve didn't know what to do about his feelings for Rebecca. He considered his options constantly, running them over in his head. He would find something else to concentrate on for a while – work mostly – but his indecision inevitably resurfaced. Falling for someone, Steve decided, was like falling ill. You don't know when or where you got sick. You don't even know you are sick at first. You barely notice the minor symptoms, like feeling funny when they look at you a certain way or smiling when they say something nice. And then the major symptoms hit you all at once.

Everything reminded him of Rebecca. The woman's hair at the bus stop was the same shade of dark blonde. The newspaper boy tipped his head the same way Rebecca did when she was curious, a rapid, darting motion like a bird. A headline about the last of the snow melting reminded him of their snowball fight. He sketched a cartoon of Lady Liberty that wound up looking like her. Steve was certain he'd never thought about anyone this much in his life. All right, maybe Bucky, but he was an exception. Could be that if the matter had been straightforward, just asking her on a date plain and simple, he wouldn't be so caught up, but the problem of whether asking her was right continued to plague him.

Seeing Rebecca was a relief in some ways and a trial in others. Steve had never been so _aware_ of her. Every word she said, every movement she made was analyzed in the hopes that he could figure out how she felt about him. Every word he said, every movement he made was second-guessed. Never mind falling ill. Falling for someone was like going bonkers.

"Rambling," Rebecca reminded him gently for the third time that day.

"Sorry."

When her lips parted, Steve thought she would say something in response, but she merely paused for a moment before lifting her fork. He should prompt her to speak. He had been talking more than usual, either out of nerves or because Rebecca was being quiet. Was it because she was being quiet? He was slightly suspicious that Bucky had talked to her.

"You haven't told me any work stories," he noted. "Don't tell me everyone's gotten boring all of a sudden."

Immediately, Steve was conscious he has said the wrong thing, as usual, because Rebecca hunched her shoulders and poked sourly at her green beans.

"I got fired," she stated, her casual tone belayed by her posture.

"For what?"

"Propositioning a coworker."

Steve felt an irrational stab of jealousy before realizing that Rebecca wouldn't do anything like that, nor would he want her to. "What really happened?"

"I caught that scumbag in a closet trying to force someone's hand down his pants, very much against their will." Rebecca stabbed a green bean so aggressively that her fork clacked against the plate. "I told him to hit the road; he made up a story to tell the boss."

Steve frowned, gripping his knife hard. "But the woman, she didn't say anything?"

"It was a guy, but no. Actually, there were three witnesses including him, and they all backed up Mr. Scumbag."

"What?!"

Rebecca shook her head. "It's not their fault. At least, it's not Carlo's fault. He's the one that got pulled into the closet."

Steve could hardly believe it. If Rebecca had stopped a man from getting taken advantage of, then she shouldn't have gotten fired. If anything, she should have gotten promoted or something.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard!" Steve exclaimed irritably.

"Tell me about it."

"They can't fire you."

"They already did."

"What's his name?" Steve asked, rising out of his chair. He could to go up to the Wyndham and give the scumbag something to think about next time he tried to stick someone's hand down his pants or get an innocent woman fired for standing up to him.

"There's nothing you can do," placated Rebecca. "No one will believe me. It's completely unfair, but he just gets to keep being a fucking asshole sleazebag."

"But if this – this fucking asshole sleazebag –" His mother must be rolling in her grave hearing him curse in front of a women, but Steve got a small burst of satisfaction from breaking the taboo.

Besides, Rebecca swore first, although she smiled at his repetition and murmured, "I'm a terrible influence on you."

"– has another person stand up to him, maybe he'll change his tune."

"And what are you gonna do? March in there and punch him in the face?"

Steve clenched his fists. "Maybe."

Rebecca looked off like she was imagining the scene play out. "I'll admit I wouldn't mind seeing that, but not everything can be solved with your fists, you know."

"I know," Steve said, though he figured they worked out all right in most situations.

"And as much as I would love to champion sexual assault claims with you, I don't think now's the time. The world isn't ready for that yet."

"You can't wait for the world to be ready. Otherwise nothing will ever change."

Rebecca gave him one of her intense looks, the kind that seemed add gravity to her words. "It will."

Steve sighed impatiently. "Well, I wish it would hurry up."

Sadness dimmed Rebecca's smile. "Careful what you wish for." She waved at his chair. "Now, why don't you sit before your food gets cold? Unless you mean to pick a fight with your chicken? It does look rather feisty."

Steve hadn't even realized he was still standing. He lowered sheepishly into his seat and picked up the utensils he'd dropped.

"Have you found another job yet?" he asked.

"No. I'm still looking." Rebecca bit her bottom lip, pushing her green beans into a pile.

She was anxious, and Steve didn't blame her. Being out of work was no joke. She had all that money from her engagement ring, but the trip to Saranac Inn had Steve suspecting she hadn't saved much.

"How much do you have left from the ring?" As Rebecca hesitated, Steve thought he shouldn't have asked. It wasn't his place.

"About twelve dollars."

Steve remembered that large stack of green sitting on the jewelry display. He could never imagine spending that much money in three months, but Rebecca had whittled it down. In the nicer part of Brooklyn she lived in, those twelve dollars would soon be gone. He looked guiltily at the chicken on the end of his fork, chicken which she had brought.

"Have you tried the WPA?"

Rebecca laughed. "I don't have any artistic talents, believe me."

"It's not just for artists," Steve explained. He had figured out by now that Rebecca didn't pay attention to the news, and so wasn't surprised by her lack of knowledge. "We work under the Federal Project Number One. There are a lot of other projects. It's mostly men, but I know they hire some women for sewing projects or as secretaries."

"Huh. Maybe they'll have something I can do." Rebecca's eyes brightened hopefully, and Steve was pleased to know he was responsible for that spark. "Where would I go to find out?"

"There's a big building on 16th and 3rd. It says 'Works Progress Administration.' You can't miss it."

"Awesome. Thank you."

"Sure. And if you wanted, there're some places around here I know where you can get stuff – food, other things – cheap. Depending on how much you get, it might be worth going. Just until you get back on your feet."

"That would be _amazing_." Rebecca beamed at him. "You're a lifesaver."

Steve shrugged, cognizant of the huge grin on his face. "Just glad I can help."

They finished up lunch, and he walked her down to One Stop Grocer. Inside, Rebecca looked over the prices and announced that they were cheaper than where she'd been shopping. At her request, Steve walked her around to point out which brands he bought. Maybe there were different brands in Montana, or she could've had someone to do her shopping. He thought the former more likely since she had a sharp eye for bargains, but it wasn't impossible that she'd had a housekeeper. After all, she had once mentioned living in a house with wings to Mrs. Cahill, and he'd never asked if she was joking. If her house had been that large, undoubtedly Rebecca had needed help to run it. Just another item on the list of things he would never be able to give her. Another reason to keep his mouth shut.

"I still can't believe canned bread is a thing," said Rebecca, eyeing a can of Cole's brown bread dubiously. "Like I can, but can't."

Steve had been eating bread from a can for as long as he could remember. But it was less expensive and lasted longer. "You've never had canned bread?"

"Tried it once. The texture was very strange. Almost worse than the taste. But," she sighed, "making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches may be the way to go for awhile."

"Couldn't hurt. Though you can still make other meals. I can tell you what you're spending too much on: butter and salt."

"I am?"

"Yeah. I can tell 'cause your food always tastes so good."

Rebecca laughed. "I guess I haven't really thought about it. Boiling most foods makes them bland, so it made sense to put on a little butter or a couple dashes of salt."

"If you're going to do a better job at being poor that you did being rich, you'll have to learn to like bland food. I haven't tasted anything in years."

"Oh really?"

"Mhmm." Steve tapped the corner of his mouth. "I didn't even think I had taste buds anymore until I tasted your cooking."

"Well, I hope you enjoyed that goodness while it lasted because now I know better."

"Too bad. I was finally working up to that full figure I've always wanted."

"Maybe I can spare the salt and butter for our meals then," Rebecca offered, arching an eyebrow in amusement. "Whenever you walk over a storm drain, I worry you're going to slip right through."

"Happed once. It's not so bad down there. The walls are thicker than in my apartment. Keeps out the drafts. If I even need to move, at least I won't have to pay rent."

"God, don't expect me to visit." Rebecca shuddered. "I don't like sewers. They bring up bad memories."

Steve was curious what experience she'd had that involved sewers, but knew better than to bring up a bad memory. Her expression told him that Rebecca was already thinking about the memory and whatever it was made her close up. Steve didn't know why he even bothered opening up his mouth around her when inevitably the wrong thing would come out. She might like him better if he kept his mouth shut. If he wanted her to like him. If she didn't like him, that might be easier. At least he knew how it felt to be rejected.

But no, he didn't want that. Steve wanted Rebecca to like him, perhaps more than anything. Perhaps more even than getting into the army, but he wasn't sure. The uncertainty was the worst part. Steve hated not knowing what to do. Did he tell her? Did he not? Did he get on his knees and ask for forgiveness for making her upset? Steve was afraid if he opened his mouth, words would start pouring out like ink from a broken pen, ruining a perfect piece of paper beyond his ability to fix. But his other option was to stand there like a fool with his heart in his mouth.

"I think I've seen enough groceries," said Rebecca, her voice overly bright. "You said there were other places?"

Steve nodded. He could tell her that he had something else to say, too. He could suggest dinner later was one of those places, a date. That sounded smooth, like something Bucky would say. Now he just had to say it.

The store felt warm all of a sudden. Steve thought his palms might have been sweating. He tucked them into his pockets. He was painfully aware of how scrawny he was, and short, and young, and inexperienced with women, and terrible at talking to women. Now was not the time to start being a coward, but Steve felt more ready to face down Nazis then ask Rebecca on a date.

"You'll have to lead the way. I don't know where we're going," Rebecca pointed out when he didn't move.

Steve couldn't say the words. "All right. We're heading to the drug store next."

The walk to the local Cunningham Drug Store passed in silence as Steve brooded over what to do. Shoppers bustled around them in the aisle, but he hardly noticed. Rebecca gently nudging him with her elbow brought him back.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," Steve lied, feeling bad for ignoring her. "You?"

Rebecca gave him a look that said she knew better. "As okay as you are. Do you… do you wanna talk about it?"

She was handing him an opportunity, but Steve had fretted himself back into indecision. "No. You?"

"No. I think it'd be better if we talked about something else."

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Hmm." Rebecca cast about the aisle and picked up a tin of toothpaste. "Did you know there's hydrochloric acid in some of these?"

By the time she had explained what hydrochloric acid could do, Steve decided he would have to check his toothpaste at home. Oddly, talking about something as mundane as toothpaste helped relieve the tension that had been building up like a grenade waiting to go off. He informed her of the most useful pain relievers and other medications, which he was more or less and expert on. Rebecca lingered over the makeup, picking up various shades of lipstick.

"I hate to spend money on lipstick, but I need to look my best while I'm on the job hunt," she fussed, uncapping a bright red shade.

"I think the darker red's swell," Steve blurted out. "The one you wore at the wedding."

Rebecca looked at him thoughtfully. "I do still have most of that tube, but don't you think it's a bit unusual?"

"I guess so, but it made your eyes stand out. And your freckles." And it was the shade Steve had imagined when he thought about kissing her, but he was feeling plenty hot under the collar without mentioning that too.

"You think it made my freckles stand out?" Rebecca groaned, touching the bridge of her nose where the freckles were clustered the most tightly.

"I like your freckles," Steve mumbled at the floor. "They're…"

"Horrendous."

Putting herself down gave Steve a smidge of confidence, enough to say, "No. They're different."

Rebecca heaved out a sigh. "Awesome."

"Different's not all bad. Different can be beautiful, like your freckles. Well, they're beautiful on you. Not that I don't think the rest of you is beautiful." Steve knew he was digging a hole, but he couldn't stop himself. "'Cause I do. I mean, you are. But – there're some people I've sketched where it's hard to find something unique about them, you know? Like I only need to see them once because I've drawn the same lines and curves a hundred times. But your freckles, they're something special. I could never get them exactly right unless you were sitting right there. And even then, it'd take time. So… so…"

Where had he been going with this? Steve couldn't even remember what was supposed to be the point of his rambling. The problem wasn't being made any easier by the way Rebecca looked at him. Her mouth had curved up in a soft smile; her eyes glimmered in a way that gave him that funny feeling, like his insides had gotten all mixed up. Her fingers skimmed the edge of his jaw, cupping that side of his face. Instinctively, Steve leaned into her touch, but froze as Rebecca bent down. She was going to kiss him right there in the middle of drug store. The idea made him flustered, but also amazed. He closed his eyes.

Her lips brushed his temple so lightly that they barely touched him. Still, the gesture felt more intimate than if Rebecca had kissed him full on the mouth. Steve couldn't explain why, he just sensed tenderness behind her kiss, unfathomable in its depth, yet undeniable in its existence. And in that brief second, he _wanted_. To be worthy of that tenderness. To return it. To remain in this one perfect moment, where he felt truly accepted for being himself, where he wasn't the same as other men but rather someone better.

"You're a good person, Steve," Rebecca whispered, her voice puffs of warm air against his skin. She dropped her hand and straightened, a withdrawal which made Steve release the breath he'd been holding. "The army will be lucky to have you."

The perfect moment splintered around him, a delicate house blown to bits when her pronouncement landed like a missile. Steve watched her walk away, torn by indecision. In the end, he followed after her, several steps behind.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I had a lovely time in NYC and even got to do some research for this story. Hopefully, this chapter was worth the wait. See you next week for a familiar scene...**

 **(Crystal H: Thanks! Well, we didn't stay in the 40s for long, so welcome back.)**


	15. Bruised Hearts

While other young men trickled up the staircase to the recruitment station in Paramus, Steve remained unmoving at its base. He wasn't sure he wanted to go inside. He watched the men walking by, hoping the sight would kindle a spark of frustration inside him. Then he would march inside with his head held high like in the four previous stations he'd visited. But frustration, usually simmering within easy reach, was curiously elusive. Steve could sense the angry heat, but barely, like coals of a dying fire. He looked up at the American flag hanging above the station and thought of the war reels they showed before a picture and the scenes of desolation described in the paper of a Nazi-ravaged Europe. That elicited a sharper response. He wanted to help, he did. And yet…

Steve closed his eyes, remembering the brush of Rebecca's lips against his temple and her voice quietly insisting he was a good person. Last they'd talked, she was jobless. If that continued, she would soon be homeless and penniless, too. She might need his help. Sure, Howard might be there for her, but he might not. Rebecca hadn't mentioned him since before the wedding, which did nothing but add to Steve's uncertainty.

He had come to the recruitment station in the hopes of finding certain footing again. For some reason, he'd thought that seeing the station would make everything clear. But here he was, no less confused than before. Steve knew he had to make a decision, though, because he couldn't walk around in a haze of indecision much longer. It was driving him bonkers.

A man knocked into his shoulder. "Watch it, kid."

Steve glared after the man, who couldn't have been much older than him. He was going to try the station. There, he had come to a decision. Nevertheless, as he walked up the stairs, Steve felt like he had taken the easy choice.

The procedure in the stations was the same everywhere. First, he had to fill out forms. There were two lines, one for those who had already been drafted, the other for volunteers. Steve suffered the recruiter's skeptical look with no more than a frown – he didn't want to be turned away at the door – and accepted the forms offered to him. He took an empty chair to fill out his information.

First, Steve put down the false address in Paramus so he wouldn't forget. Then, he went back to the top. He wrote a capital R on the line for his surname, and paused as a thought occurred to him. Perhaps changing his address wasn't enough. Maybe he should change another piece of information so they would be even less likely to discover his true identity. He had already put an R down, so it needed to be a name beginning with that letter. His hand moved on a whim, forming a name in his neat cursive.

 _Surname: Read_

Steve kept filling out the forms, but continually returned to the front page. Rebecca had encouraged him to join the army. He had more or less admitted that he was lying about his address on the forms, and she hadn't batted an eye. Surely, she wouldn't mind if he borrowed her surname. Only then he recalled Bucky telling him that Rebecca was being supportive for his sake. And how pensive Rebecca had seemed when he'd asked if she wanted him to stop fighting. He might have still kept the name if it hadn't occurred to him that, in the event of his death, Rebecca might find out that he'd used her name and feel responsible.

By writing on top with thick lines, Steve turned "Read" into "Rogers." He changed his birth date from July 4th to July 14th instead. He handed the completed forms over to another recruiter and attempted to hide his nerves while the recruiter scanned them. He tried not to look relieved either when the recruiter made a few notes and stuck the forms into a file folder. The file was given to him along with a small black pouch on a string.

In the neighboring room, Steve tucked his wallet into the pouch and hung the string around his neck. He stripped down to his jockeys, folding up his clothing. He didn't need to look around to know he was on the receiving end of a few head shakes and contemptuous grins. The army would be searching for discipline, so Steve ignored the other men. Most weren't paying attention to him anyhow, joking and bragging about how many Nazis and Japs they were going to kill.

Although, Steve couldn't help but notice that the man undressing beside him remained silent. Lines around the corners of his lips meant that he smiled often, but his dark green eyes were serious. He had a nice back, perfectly smooth, with shoulder blades that jutted out when he pulled off his shirt, marking a shadowy X in the valley between. The shadow ebbed and grew again, mesmerizing as bone and muscle shifted.

Steve quickly scooped up his clothing and went to put it in one of the hundred cubbies stacked row after row along the wall.

The physical examination came next, which included everything from peeing in a bottle to using x rays to check for TB. Steve was used to the routine, having been poked and prodded by his mother since as far back as he could remember until she got sick, and a number of doctors when she'd had the money for them.

Every time the doctor found something wrong, a box was checked off on the physical examination form. Steve knew what was being marked even when he couldn't see the paper. The doctor felt along his spine. A checkmark for scoliosis. The doctor pressed a stethoscope to his chest. A checkmark for heart arrhythmia. The stethoscope shifted to his lungs; the doctor asked a question. Steve considered lying, but nodded. A checkmark for asthma. The doctor took his blood pressure. A checkmark for high blood pressure.

On and on, box after box was checked, a growing tally of his ailments that equaled the same sum each time: rejection.

"Can't you just put down one of them?" Steve pleaded when the doctor made to note his color-blindness and slightly blurry vision.

The doctor shook his head. "It's not going to make a difference at this point." He wrote out some final notes, signed his name, and held out the file to a nurse.

Steve followed the nurse dejectedly onwards and took a seat in a waiting room to see one of the psychologists. This was a far as he ever got. He picked up a newspaper that had been left out and read about German U-Boat sightings and how the Japs had captured Batavia.

"Boy, a lot of guys getting killed over there," noted a man whom Steve recognized from standing beside him the changing room. His expression was grim as he flipped through a paper of his own.

A loud voice called, "Rogers, Steven!"

"Kind of makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?"

Steve set the paper aside and hopped out of his seat. "Nope." His doubts had nothing to do with getting killed, not in the way the man meant at least.

The recruiter who had called Steve's name stood behind a podium, glancing over his file. Either the recruiter, a lead doctor, could stamp his file here or allow him to pass on to the mental test.

"Rogers," Steve announced. He peeked over the podium and was dismayed to see the thick stack of forms. They'd found his original file. He'd really thought changing his birth date would be enough to fool them for sure.

The recruiter asked, "What did your father die of?"

"Mustard gas. He was in the 107th Infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned –"

"Your mother?"

"She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit. Couldn't shake it."

The recruiter grimaced and reached for a wooden stamp, the top labeled with a black 4F. "Sorry, son."

As he lifted the stamp, desperation surged within Steve. He couldn't watch himself being labeled as inadequate again. "Look, just give me a chance."

"You'd be ineligible on your asthma alone."

"Is there anything you can do?"

"I'm doing it. I'm saving your life." The stamp fell, and a 4F appeared. The ink was so shiny that Steve felt as though everyone in the room must be able to see it. The recruiter gave him a sympathetic look. "You want my advice? Go home. Find yourself a nice girl to settle down with. You'll be a lot happier than if you were heading overseas."

Steve slunk back to the changing room, got dressed, and returned his empty money pouch to a basket beside the front door. They were never going to let him into the army. With his crummy health, he couldn't even get all the way through the tests. Something inside him recoiled at the idea of giving up. If he never went to another station that would be like admitting everyone was right about his being frail and useless. Only… only not everyone treated him that way. Rebecca didn't. And she was a nice girl. And he was happy around her, also flustered and confused, but happy nonetheless. She would be visiting later today. He could tell her how he felt.

Or maybe he shouldn't.

Steve left the recruiting station, fretting over his choices. It seemed like he hadn't made a decision after all.

* * *

Becca wasn't sure she could be around Steve much longer. She had thought ignoring that he liked her was possible. It wasn't. Hanging out with Steve when they were just friends had been fine. Sometimes seeing him made her sad, and sometimes having to remember he wasn't the man she married was difficult, but having him as a friend was worth the pain.

Knowing Steve had fallen in love with her all over again made her situation ten thousand times harder. She was lying to him. For the good of the future, yes, but lies were still lies. And she was going to allow him to walk into a war, fully aware of how much he would suffer.

Of course, she could stop him. All she would have to do was keep him away from the science fair. She could tell Howard what she knew about Hydra. Maybe he along with another super solider could stop Red Skull. Then, the young man who stammered when he called her beautiful and looked up at her with puppy dog eyes when she kissed his temple might be able to live a happy, normal life. With her, if he wanted. And maybe if she did discover a way back home, he could come with her.

Maybe.

Or maybe Red Skull would win. And Hydra. And Loki. And Ultron. And Thanos. And all the other villains in the world that Steve had helped stop.

The risk was too great to balance the happiness of one man, even if she loved him. Even if he loved her. Because that was the price of being in a relationship with a superhero. The greater good came first. There were a few smaller situations where Steve had put her before others, but never anything big. Between potentially saving the entire planet and saving her, Becca knew what Steve would choose, and it was the choice she would want him to make. She had to do the same.

So Becca decided to see Steve one more time. If she truly felt that she was in danger of changing the future, she had to walk away.

She had a little less than a week to come up with an excuse. It would have been much easier if she hadn't told him that most of her money was gone. She could have just said she was going back to Montana.

While she was still debating, Becca visited the WPA center like Steve had suggested. A Mr. Bradshaw spoke with her in his office. Apparently unemployment was expected to go down drastically with the war on, and she had a couple of options. The idea of working at a mill or clothing factory reminded her nervously of the horror tales she'd heard in history classes. She had only the basic idea of how to sew, so a sewing room was out of the question. Then, Mr. Bradshaw informed her that the New York Public Library was hoping to train another bookbinder. Becca mentioned she knew one of the librarians and the matter was settled. The pay wasn't quite as good as her last job, but it was decent and likely less stressful.

The matter of employment might be taken care of, but Becca still needed to look at rooms for rent. While flipping through the newspaper, she spotted an ad in the classifieds that gave her the perfect excuse to disappear from Steve's life, if she needed to. She hoped she wouldn't, but Becca steeled her resolve as she walked around his tenement building to the back staircase.

Four men loitered around the base of the stairs. They looked around Steve's age, perhaps a year or two older. The tallest one seemed familiar. She vaguely remembered seeing him around. He probably lived in the building.

"Heading up to see Steve?" he asked.

Definitely lived in the building. "Yup."

He slipped in front of Becca, blocking the stairs. "Maybe you'd like to visit my place first."

Oh hell no. Becca touched her purse. No gun inside. No pepper spray. She did have a pen. "I'd rather not. Steve's expecting me, so if you wouldn't mind…?"

Becca shifted forward but the man didn't move. A glance at his companions told Becca that they wouldn't be of any help to her. They weren't leering or anything, but none looked inclined to speak up. Silent toadies. But if she took down the ringleader, she felt relatively confident they'd run off. He was tall and bulky, but she knew how to fight. He wouldn't be expecting that.

"See, I heard that you were Steve's cousin here for a visit, but then you just kept coming back. So I got to thinking that maybe you weren't his cousin at all. Maybe the first rumors I heard were true." He took a step forward and Becca stepped back at a slight angle, so she could keep everyone in her view and still have a clear escape route back around the building. "That you're a married woman looking for something on the side."

"I'm his cousin," said Becca firmly. "Now please let me by. I don't want any trouble."

The man held up his hands. "I don't want trouble either, sweetheart. I want to help."

"I doubt it."

"Don't be like that," he tsked, and ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "I meant it. I know a kid like Steve can't be giving you what you need."

"Even if what you're implying was true, I think the entire building would know. The walls are super thin, in case you haven't noticed," Becca pointed out, nose wrinkling at the insinuation.

"Well, like I said, Steve can't be giving you what you need. He's so small, I bet you hardly feel a thing."

"Richie!" An older woman stood on the first landing, her face white. "You leave that girl be!"

Becca took advantage of the distraction to back away, but Richie jerked his head at her and one of his toadies grabbed her arm. Fine, if this was the way they wanted to play it. From the knowing way the woman glared down the stairs, this wasn't the first time Richie and his gang had cornered someone. Like what Mr. Baudin had been doing at the Wyndham, and would continue to do without the fear of consequences. Well, this gang was going to learn their lesson. She struggled a bit as cover for opening her purse, and then went still.

"Go back inside, Mrs. Brogan," said Richie with a confident smirk. "We're just having a talk."

"It's never 'just a talk' with you! Leave her in peace!"

"Oh, but she'll like our talk. Maybe you will, too. Care to join?"

Mrs. Brogan turned around and rushed back up the stairs, but Becca didn't care. She was waiting patiently. She wanted to see the look on Richie's face when she broke his nose. All that smug satisfaction would drain right off. Under most circumstances, she wouldn't like her odds against four opponents, but anger bolstered her confidence.

"Last chance to let me go," she warned.

Richie shook his head. "Why don't you come up to my place, and we'll just see what happens?"

"Okay, you know what? That sounds like a great idea," said Becca in her sweetest voice. Richie looked taken aback. "I had to put up a little bit of a fight for appearances, but really deep down I think all women want is to please big, tough men like you and your friends. Your friends are coming too, right?" She fluttered her eyelashes at them. "Don't be shy." The men glanced at each other in disbelief, which quickly turned to excitement. The hold on her arm loosened. Becca winked at the redhead on her left. That's right assholes, just a little closer.

"Hey!" Steve flew down the stairs in a fury, his hands balled into fists. He stopped on a step where he was eye-level with Richie. "Leave her alone!"

From higher up the stairs, Mrs. Brogan peeked over the railing. Becca didn't need Steve's help, but she gave Mrs. Brogan a grateful nod.

Richie laughed. "I don't think so. See, your lady friend has decided to come with us now. So we're gonna take turns showing her a good time while you listen to her squeal and –"

Steve leapt, but Richie shoved him hard. He smacked into the staircase and fell.

That was it. Becca threw an elbow into the stomach of the man who'd held her arm, simultaneously stomping on his foot. One. The other toadies were staring at her dumbstruck. Becca used the momentum from her elbow to swing her hand into a throat, making the second man splutter and clutch his neck. Two. The final toady had caught on and attempted to grab her. She batted his hand aside easily and punched him in the face. While he was reeling, she grabbed him and tugged forward, bringing up her knee to catch him in the groin. He collapsed to the ground. Three. Number One had recovered enough to make another grab for her. She caught his arm and yanked. He tripped over Three and went sprawling into the mud. Two had staggered away. Which left Richie. Who had his back to her, the fucking idiot.

Steve grunted in pain as Richie's slammed a fist into him, and rage turned the corners of Becca's vision white. She gripped the back of his jacket and pulled.

Richie stumbled backwards, forehead creased in consternation. "What –"

Becca slammed her wrist up into his nose. There was a cracking sound and blood began to poor from Richie's nostrils as he howled. She kneed him in the balls for good measure. As he gasped and bent double, Becca thrust a hand into her purse and felt around for her pen. There. She held flicked off the cap and held the pen up like a knife. Richie straightened as best he could, his gaze murderous. Becca held her ground.

"Give me a reason, asshole," she hissed. If he tried to grab her, this pen was going right through his hand.

Richie glanced behind him. Three was attempting to use the wall to get to his feet. One seemed equally angry, but he had slunk back toward the street. Two was nowhere in sight. Richie spat at her, the glob landing on her chin.

"You'd better watch your back."

"No." Becca narrowed her eyes. "You'd better watch yours."

Growling, Richie retreated. Becca wiped the spit from her chin, dropping the pen back into her purse. She took a deep breath in and out. It took a lot for someone to make her really angry, and she scared herself a little when it happened. Steve had once told her that she had a violent streak buried deep down. She had asked him if he thought that was bad, to which he'd replied that it was actually kind of hot.

Therefore, Becca wasn't exactly surprised to find this Steve staring at her with a mixture of awe, respect, and a trace of desire. She smiled, even though she was concerned at the bruise rising on his cheek.

"You okay?"

"Uh huh," Steve assured her. "I had him on the ropes, so you're welcome for getting him lined up."

"Yeah, I don't know if I could've managed without you." Becca began heading up the stairs, noticing that Mrs. Brogan had disappeared. Hopefully she would spread around what had happened, so Richie and his gang would have to put up with the additional humiliation of knowing that everyone had heard they'd been beat up by a woman.

"Are _you_ all right?" Steve checked.

"Yeah," Becca replied, but damn, her right hand hurt. She hoped he had enough ice for the both of them.

"I can't believe you got to all four of them." Steve shook his head in admiration. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

Becca shrugged. "Around. I wanted to know how to defend myself. My husband also thought it was a smart idea, so he made sure I had good teachers."

"Well, that was really something."

"Thanks."

Back in his apartment, Steve helped her out of her coat and immediately checked on the soup he'd left on the stove. Becca searched the freezer, glad to find a full ice tray. She dumped half into a dishtowel and pressed the makeshift icepack to Steve's cheek.

"Keep it there," she instructed. "I'll be right back."

Becca went into the bathroom to wash the spit residue from her chin and the blood off her hands. Her shoulders were starting to protest from the fight, and her kneecap was smarting, too. She wasn't in as great shape anymore. If nothing else, she should pick up yoga again. Yoga kept her limber and helped her relax. She shut off the faucet. Her skin remained clean for a second, and then blood beaded around a knuckle. Becca examined the spot. Looked like she'd ripped the skin a bit. She opened the medicine cabinet and got a band-aid to cover the torn skin.

When Becca returned to the kitchen, Steve was setting the table, which meant he had put his ice pack aside.

"Steve! I could've set the table."

"It's almost done."

"Stubborn," Becca muttered. She noticed that he had put the ice away. "Do you have another dishcloth? Or a washcloth?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, one second." Steve set a glass of water down, completing the table setting.

As he headed for the bathroom, Becca reminded him, "Take the icepack."

Although he sighed, Steve did double back and press the icepack to his cheek before going into the bathroom. Becca pulled the ice tray out of the freezer while he was gone. She put her hand over the half with ice and dumped the half Steve had refilled with water into the sink. He returned with the blue washcloth that had been hanging on the edge of the tub.

"It's clean," he promised. "I did the wash this morning."

"Thanks." Becca laid the washcloth down on the counter and bent the tray so the ice fell out.

Steve frowned indignantly. "I don't need any more ice."

"I know," said Becca, refilling the tray with water from the sink. "This one's for me."

Steve perked up, alarmed. He seemed to notice the band-aid for the first time. "You said you were all right."

"So did you." Becca nodded at his cheek and went to put the tray back into the freezer. She nearly knocked into Steve who had hurried up beside her with the ice all bundled into the washcloth. "Thanks." She took the ice pack and pressed it against her right hand. Ugh, that felt good.

"Does your hand feel broken? Maybe I should take you to a doctor," Steve offered, backing towards the door. "Even if it doesn't feel broken, maybe –"

Becca cut in. "It's fine. Just a little sore from beating up jerks." She sat down at the table before he could argue.

After a moment, Steve joined her. "You're sure?"

"Completely." Becca rested her sore hand on the table, using her left hand to awkwardly dip a spoon into her bowl. Steam rose from her full spoon, so she blew on the soup before tasting. "It's good." Steve nodded. "Beef?" He nodded again. His eyes never left her hand, and Becca could see the gears turning. There was guilt there, and anger. "How's work been this past week?" she asked, trying to distract him. "Any exciting art commissions?"

"Not really."

"Well, what were the non-exciting commissions?"

"Taught a high school art class." Steve still wasn't looking into her face, and his shoulders rose and fell more rapidly.

"That sounds interesting." Steve shrugged. Becca nearly rolled her eyes. This wasn't going to work. She should know better. "Say it."

Steve finally looked up. "What?"

"What you're thinking right now. Say it."

Steve worked his jaw for a couple of seconds and then muttered, "I should've been able to stop the fight."

Of course this was about the fight. Becca sighed. "It's not your fault. Those jerks are the ones who should feel guilty."

"But you got hurt."

"Not because they did anything to me."

"But you wouldn't have gotten hurt if I could've taken them." Steve's voice rose steadily. "But I couldn't because I'm short and weak and – and I can't protect you. I can't join the army. I'm – I'm useless!" He slammed his ice pack down on the table causing Becca to jump. Ice burst free, skittering across the tabletop and onto the floor. Steve leapt up from his chair. "I need a minute." He sped off into his bedroom.

Becca listened to make sure he wasn't having an asthma attack. No uneven breathing. She abandoned her ice pack and collected his ice off the floor, placing it back into the dishtowel. Poor Steve. She could only image how depressing it would be to feel like no one believed in you and that you could never have anything you wanted. Seeing him like this helped her understand a few things about him, like why he cared so much about equality, and why he was so kind to those in need of something to believe in, and why he fought so hard to make the world better. Because he had experienced some of the worst in the world and felt helpless. She couldn't tell him all the amazing things he would do someday, but she would do her best to make sure he understood all the same.

Once the ice had been gathered, Becca picked up both ice packs and brought them into the bedroom. Steve sat in the edge of his bed, hands clasped together. He appeared to be concentrating, on his breathing seemed likely. She sat beside him and offered his ice pack. He accepted it without protest and held the ice against his cheek.

They sat quietly until Steve whispered, "I'm sorry. That was rude."

"It's okay. I know life can be frustrating sometimes. But you're not useless," Becca declared. Steve examined the floor and said nothing. "You have no way of knowing how many lives you might've affected. Maybe one of the gorillas you stood up to remembered how you wouldn't back down, and so they didn't beat up the next guy just because he looked like an easy target. Maybe the girl you saved from her boyfriend in a bar decided that she's better off without him. Maybe someone was thinking of ending it all, but they saw your cartoon in the paper and it made them smile and think there's something to live for. Maybe you'll do even greater things in the future. Who knows? Anything's possible.

"Of course, you could argue that's all speculation and doesn't prove anything, so here's a fact: you saved my life." Becca smiled when Steve looked up at her. "If you had left me out on your doorstep, I don't think I would have made it. I was too tired, too cold. But you gave me your coat and invited me inside, even though you didn't know me. And when I had no one else to talk to, I knew that I could talk to you. And I'm very grateful that you've been there for me."

Becca yearned to kiss him, but she knew she couldn't. Even placing that kiss on his temple had felt dangerously personal. But she ached to give him some kind of comfort, so she set her ice pack aside and hugged him. She felt him tense, but slowly he relaxed. The ice grated together as he put his ice pack down, and then his arms wrapped around her. Becca squeezed her eyes shut, rested against his shoulder, and they were together again. Just her and Steve. Her Steve.

"You're not useless to me," she promised. Steve's hold tightened minutely.

And Becca wanted to cry because she knew that she couldn't come back. This felt right, too right. The words "I love you" were burning her throat, demanding release. She let go. Meeting his gaze was a mistake. Those three words echoed in his eyes, soft, unspoken. Her resolve was crumbling, a wall that would come down with a bang unless she made this quick.

"Remember what I said, and – and don't give up on the army. I have a good feeling about this month. And a really, truly think they need you. I do." Becca picked up her ice pack and stood. "Now, I'm going to go have more of my soup. You come join me when you're ready."

Becca didn't him a chance to respond. She left right away and seated herself at the table. The soup was hot enough to burn, but she swallowed spoonful after spoonful, focusing on the physical pain to clear her head.

Steve joined her a minute later, ice pack once more against his cheek and an unnervingly determined look on his face. She needed to make her excuse as soon as possible.

"You haven't asked me if I found a job," she noted.

Steve asked, "Have you?"

"Yes. I found a couple in the classifieds, the Hallorans. They're going on holiday and needed a live-in nanny for their children up in Tarrytown. It was very short notice, so they said I was hired on the spot."

Steve thought and blew on a spoonful of soup. "That's north from here, isn't it?"

"Mhmm. Not ridiculously far, but I won't be able to visit."

"When you do start?"

"Tomorrow. And they'll be gone until the end of this month. Maybe longer," Becca lied, forcing a neutral expression when Steve's face fell. "Their friends are paying for them to go traveling together around the western states." She didn't have to fake an apologetic tone. "Sorry I couldn't tell you sooner. But hey, maybe by the time I get back, you'll already be off to basic training. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Yeah," Steve agreed, sounding disappointed. "Great."

Becca turned the conversation back around to the art class Steve had taught, hoping to lighten the mood. She even brought up the war, since it seemed to be a favorite subject, but nothing worked. Steve remained relatively quiet and any jokes he made were followed by a visibly forced smile. She wanted the meal to be over, yet she never wanted to leave. She wanted future Steve to appear and take her away so she wouldn't have to look at him now pretending not to be miserable.

When Steve offered to see her back to the Goulds' apartment, Becca didn't have the heart to tell him no. She handed him her ice pack, which he'd insisted she take, outside the door. This was it. Goodbye. Hopefully not forever, but she couldn't' be sure. Not getting to say goodbye had been worse, but knowing didn't make a goodbye any easier.

"Will you come and see me when you get back?" Steve asked, the desperation he tried to hide showing in the way he clutched her ice pack.

"Of course. So long as you're not off showing up all the other army recruits," Becca promised, which wasn't really a lie. She leaned down to give him a kiss on his unmarred cheek, probably lingering longer than she should have. "Try not to be too reckless while I'm gone."

Steve joked, "I've never been reckless a day in my life."

Becca snorted and placed a brief kiss above his bruise. "Just promise me you'll try?"

"All right. I promise. And – and I hope the kids you're looking out for don't give you too hard of a time."

"Thanks."

"If you ever need anything…"

"I know. Thank you." Becca's throat was clogging up. She needed to go. She fished her key out of her purse and opened the apartment door. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye." Becca stepped into the apartment and started shutting the door, but Steve's hand darted out to stop her. "You're not useless to me either, you know. I never said… you're… I'm – I'm real glad you were sleeping next to my door. Not that I wanted you to be freezing out there, but… I just wanted you to know that I feel lucky, is all. Before you go."

Becca swallowed thickly. She would never in a million years understand what good she must have done to deserve him. "Believe me, Steve. I feel the same." She shut the door, but her hand remained on the knob as she listened.

For a minute, there was no sound on the other side. Steve wasn't moving. Becca thought he might knock, and it terrified her to suspect that she would open the door. But then the floorboards creaked with his retreat. In the silence he had left, Becca allowed herself to speak the words she'd left unsaid.

"I love you."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **That's right. We've made it to The First Avenger! However, since the film didn't specify when the opening scenes with Steve were occurring in relation to each other, I've taken liberties in that this recruitment scene and the movie theater scene aren't happening on the same day. But we'll get there. See you soooon.** **(N: Thanks! Good guess.)**


	16. Faint Echoes of Something More

Bookbinding turned out to be a more complicated process than Becca had thought, involving punching holes through the pages, weaving in threads, and making sure all the pages and binding were glued properly and held in place while drying. The New York Public Library had a constant supply of books being mended, not only those for the library, but also for local schools receiving donations. Becca pocketed her wedding ring in the mornings so it wouldn't get damaged and scrubbed her hands raw with Lestoil each night to remove the glue. The work itself was at turns frustrating and mind-numbingly boring.

The one aspect Becca did enjoy was the people she worked with. The library employed three other women to bind books. Mabel had been there the longest, and so she became Becca's mentor. A robust woman with five sons of whom she spoke with enormous pride, Mabel was quick to laugh and infinitely patient, which Becca appreciated as she struggled to learn the trade of bookbinding. Louise was the closest to Becca's age, very talkative and very pregnant. Ora was the quietest of the bunch, but she maintained a tranquil kind of quiet rather than the aloof kind.

Unlike with her last job, Becca made quick friends of her coworkers. Her reasons were purely selfish. She missed having a group of friends. If it was a bad idea to form relationships, Becca no longer cared. Gaining friends she could talk to was like getting a piece of herself back. Seeing Steve had been nice, and those visits kept her from despairing on a number of occasions, but hanging out once a week hadn't been nearly enough.

Of course, Becca did miss Steve. Her new friends questioned her past in ways Steve had avoided. None of the women had his dry sense of humor, and she couldn't engage them in a round of good-natured teasing. When they spoke of the war, there was only worry, none of the fiery anger and conviction Steve exuded. Although those emotions had pained Becca to see in the moment, she missed them in their absence. But she didn't miss Steve as much as she would have without making friends. After all, she was used to him being gone for long periods of time.

The hardest part was the knowledge that with her and Bucky gone, Steve had no close friends left. Becca worried that he would be lonely. She hoped that he would visit the Barneses more often, and that her absence might cool his feelings towards her until they met again in the future, a future to which she desperately wanted to return.

While J.A.C.K. might prove to be the key, Becca was excited when she returned to the Goulds' apartment to find the elderly couple speaking with a man who introduced himself as Mr. Bowen, Howard's latest butler. Mr. Spencer had finally had enough, it seemed. Mr. Bowen was much softer spoken than his predecessor, with a precise, calm demeanor. However, he came across as nearly too quiet, bearing the kind of serenity that would snap when pitched into chaos. At a guess, he'd last a month tops.

Surprisingly, Mr. Bowen didn't bring them to Stark Industries or the alley in which Becca had appeared. Instead, he drove westward out of the city to a location where Howard had been working on a "special project" for the upcoming science fair. She shouldn't have told him that his flying car wasn't going to fly correctly. He'd probably been spending a lot of time attempting to fix the mechanical problems rather than concentrating on her scientific time-travel dilemma.

The warehouse where Mr. Bowen stopped the car looked about to collapse, but he indicated that Becca should go in. Apparently no one else was allowed inside, not even him.

"I'll let Mr. Stark know you're out here waiting," Becca promised before entering the warehouse through an unlocked door that looked much newer than the rest of the building.

The warehouse itself contained what must be the latest scientific machinery, bright strings of electrical lights, and – of course – a brilliant red car. Howard's legs poked out from behind one of the wheels. Something underneath the belly of the car whirred and sparked, followed by a triumphant "ha!" Becca approached quietly, deciding to wait until Howard came out rather than startle him while… doing whatever he was doing. With her luck, he would whack his head and fall into a coma.

Fortunately, Becca didn't have long to wait. Howard wriggled out from underneath the car, spotted with grease and grime. He started at seeing her, but his already huge grin got wider.

"Perfect timing," said Howard, hoisting himself to his feet. "You're about to see me change the future."

Becca tilted her head, curious. "I am?"

"You sure are. 'Cause this car is going to hover and land smoothly." Howard wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it onto a nearby bench. He slid behind a panel and pressed a few buttons. "Come help me push the lever. There's nothing luckier than having a pretty dame as an assistant. Except having two, of course."

Becca rolled her eyes, but she did join him behind the panel. She put her hand on the lever Howard pointed to, and he covered her hand with his. Slowly, they pushed the lever upwards. The devices in place of wheels hummed, and the car began to lift off the ground. Okay, this was kind of awesome. She was the second person to ever work a flying car, or help it work at any rate.

Then, something went wrong. The humming died as sparks flew from the hover devices, and the car fell with a thump.

Howard let out a disgusted sound. "I thought I'd finally isolated the problem."

"It's okay," comforted Becca, patting him consolingly on the arm. "You're still the inventor of the flying car, even if it doesn't work perfectly."

"Yeah, but if I…" Howard crouched beside the car, examining one of the hover devices.

Before he could get caught up in trying to work out why the car had fallen, Becca asked, "Is there more than this car you have to show me?"

"Uh…" Still eyeing the car, Howard stood. He was silent for a minute and then abruptly sighed. "Yeah. I've made some progress with your mysterious alley."

Some progress was good. Becca would have been shocked if he'd announced anything more so soon. "That's great. Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Bowen is outside. Do you want to dismiss him or something?"

"He'll wait. I picked him 'cause he seemed more patient than my last butler."

Being patient didn't make having to sit around pointlessly any less boring. Becca wasn't sure that tact would make a difference, however, so she tried, "Just a thought, but your butlers might stick around longer if you don't make them do things like sit outside in the sun without anything to keep them occupied."

Howard shrugged. "That's their job, isn't it? And besides, you told me I'll get an 'amazing' butler. I assume by 'amazing' that also includes he'll stick around."

"What if the reason you get an amazing butler is because I suggested that you be more considerate, and you took my advice," Becca speculated, mirroring his careless shrug when he looked doubtful. "Just saying."

"I'll consider it."

Becca decided that was the best she could do for now, but she'd push harder if they were here for a long time. She really wanted to know what Howard had found out, more so than knowing Mr. Bowen wasn't going to fall asleep out of boredom.

Howard stated, "So I've come up with a few hypotheses."

"I can't wait to hear them, but remember, when you're explaining, pretend like I'm five years old."

"Hard to do when someone's a beautiful as –"

Becca set a hand on her hip. Although Howard's flirting seemed to be a harmless reflex under most circumstances, she needed to stop him from getting sidetracked. "And focus, please."

"It's always business with you," Howard lamented, but he fetched a suitcase without further diversions and set it on a worktable. "There's this physicist, Albert Einstein, who published a paper seven years back in which he and his collaborator Dr. Rosen were examining quantum mechanics in spacetime."

The names clicked in Becca's memory. Naturally, she'd heard about Einstein-Rosen Bridges. Ever since Thor had traveled to Earth, they had become a more popular term than wormhole. But her understanding was sketchy at best, even though she'd heard a first-hand account of what one looked like.

"Okay, I'm not a genius five-year-old," Becca said in exasperation. "Quantum mechanics? Spacetime?"

"Quantum mechanics is the field where you study all the tiny particles that make up everything in the universe. Spacetime…" Howard opened the suitcase as he pondered how to explain. A hundred papers, at least, had been crammed into the suitcase. Some were typed, others full of handwriting and diagrams. He flipped through the papers, tossing them onto the workbench one by one. "All you need to know about spacetime is that it's a way of looking at the universe mathematically which combines space and time into a – a single dimension. Are you with me?"

The definitions seemed relevant, and any further in-depth explanations were likely to make her head spin. So Becca nodded.

"Good. Well then, in their paper, Einstein and Rosen argued for the existence of what they call Einstein-Rosen Bridges, which are bridges that could be formed to connect different points in spacetime." Howard set a paper on the table with a diagram of one of the bridges, which looked like an hourglass turned on its side. "Most physicists agree that these bridges could theoretically exist in space, but they would only last for a split second and be too unstable for a human to pass through."

"It only took a second for me to travel. I blinked and then I was here," Becca reminded him, studying the diagram hopefully. This sounded promising, as these bridges definitely did exist, and she didn't think Howard would have brought up this theory just to discount it.

"That takes care of the time," Howard conceded, continuing to sort through the papers. "But the bridge would still be unstable unless there were enough particles with a negative energy density present to stabilize it, which is hypothetically impossible."

"Hypothetically impossible, but not completely impossible."

"No, not completely impossible. At least, I don't think so." Howard removed a pen from behind his ear to make a note in the corner of a paper that was already crammed full of equations and writing. Then, he dropped a stack of pages bound together with a hole-punch and string. "Not long before the Einstein-Rosen Bridge theory, one Dr. Zwicky proposed that there are particles in the universe which we don't see and aren't even aware exist because we haven't developed methods to detect them. He calls these particles 'dark matter.'"

The term sounded vaguely familiar. Becca thumbed through the bound pages, which contained large blocks of text and dauntingly long equations. "And dark matter could have a negative energy density?"

"Potentially. He said – I have the letter somewhere." Howard dumped out the remaining papers in his suitcase. "He sent me a lot of copies his notes and this final report of his findings. Seemed happy I was interested. Now where… Well, it doesn't matter." He stopped searching for the letter and scooped the unwanted pages back into the suitcase. "Zwicky said that it's possible dark matter has a negative energy density, but the problem is that he can't prove beyond a doubt that dark matter exists 'cause all his evidence comes from a galaxy cluster a long way off. So it's all theoretical. The irony, of course, is that he gave us the vital theorem which is – well – it's hard to explain, but what's important in this case is that it relates mass to energy to temperature."

Becca paused, forgetting about the half-turned page in her hand, which bore notations she wouldn't have been able to decipher anyway. "The cold spot."

Howard snapped his fingers. "Exactly."

"So the Infinity Stone used dark matter to create and stabilize an Einstein-Rosen Bridge," Becca recounted aloud, to make sure she had understood correctly.

"That's my theory," Howard agreed with a nod.

"And the spot where I appeared is still cold because the dark matter stayed in place becauuuse…"

"Particles with a negative energy density would have a different gravitational pull, which Zwicky's dark matter does have, according to him. It would also have the potential to bend light, which was why I was detecting unusual reflections in my Light-Trap."

"Okay. Okay. So the dark matter is still there and not going anywhere." This was excellent. This was progress. Becca would have hugged him if Howard wasn't the type to take a possible sign of affection and run too far with it. "Can the bridge then be reopened?"

"If there's enough dark matter left to be correctly manipulated, then theoretically, yes."

There was an edge of frustration in Howard's tone that made Becca say, "I'm sensing a 'but' coming."

Howard ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the mess of papers as he had the fallen car. " _But_ I don't know how much dark matter is necessary to reopen the bridge 'cause I have no way to measure the energy density of individual particles. And even if I could, I don't know how I'd manipulate or maintain enough to get you back across the bridge."

Of course, the solution couldn't be easy. She should be grateful for what Howard had come up with so far and wait patiently to see what he would do with this lead. But Becca had to know. "Do you think that's something you'll be able to figure out?"

"I'll try," Howard assured her. "I'd like to go down in history as the man who discovered time travel, but it'll take a lot of work. Could be a week's worth. Could be a year or more. And I've got a lot of other projects on my plate at the moment. I might have less if you tell me if and how we win the war."

His offer was tempting. If she assured him that they won against Hitler, maybe Howard would focus on reopening the bridge. Otherwise, years would pass while he dealt with the war and making his weapons. She couldn't even imagine being stuck here for years. Maybe Steve would come for her in the meantime. Maybe things would pan out with J.A.C.K. Or maybe she would be stuck for years. _Years_ , god, no. Going on three months had been more than enough.

"Well…"

But she had no clue to what extent Howard influenced the outcome of the war. Becca did know he created weapons that would be used, and he played a key role in Project: Rebirth. He might be equally vital in the war. She bit her bottom lip, raging at the unfairness of her situation. She wished she could put herself first. But she couldn't.

Becca shook her head.

"It was worth a shot," Howard sighed.

"Sorry. Thanks for keeping me in the loop." Becca had been ecstatic at the prospect of scientific theories that could lead to a way home, but now felt nothing more than disappointment. "Let me know if you come up with anything else or need my help. Oh, and I might move in the meantime, so if I do, I'll leave my new address with your secretary."

"Got tired of living with a couple of fuddy-duddies?"

Becca hesitated. She hated to ask for a loan, especially if she might not be able to pay Howard back. Not that he would miss the money. Or he might. Howard was rich, but he'd not yet achieved the amount of wealth he would once Stark Industries really took off. Any money he loaned her might be meant as an important investment or invention. Sound as those reasons were, what made Becca ultimately decide to keep her money troubles under wraps was that she couldn't stomach the notion of asking for a handout.

"A bit," she said.

"Well, my door's always open if you wanted to spend a night," Howards offered, his characteristic grin returning. "Or two."

"Thanks," Becca replied with a half-hearted smile. "But I'll have to pass."

"You're breaking my heart, Rebecca. A peek at that phone of yours might mend it."

Rolling her eyes, Becca strolled away. "Goodbye. Good luck with your car."

"You're coming to the fair, right?" Howard called after her. Although she had no intention of going, Becca spread her arm noncommittally. "The car will be hovering by then. You'll see."

Mr. Bowen was slumped against the driver's side window. He had obviously anticipated being stuck a long time because he'd fallen asleep. Becca gingerly opened the back door and slid in. She wasn't in a rush to return to the Goulds' apartment. She wasn't in a rush to get anywhere, except home. But it seemed she would have to wait, only unlike Mr. Bowen, she couldn't pass the time with her eyes blissfully shut.

Scooting down in the seat, Becca touched her wedding ring. It slid off easily when she pulled. Her fingers had thinned slightly as she lost weight. She turned the ring, the engraved initials of Steve's name glinting near white in the dimming light.

Becca pressed the ring to her lips and whispered as though her words could somehow travel through the ring to the matching wedding band that Steve wore.

"Please come get me."

* * *

It wasn't until the first weekend passed without her that Steve really missed Rebecca. Her weekly visits had become such a constant in his life that even though he knew she was gone, Steve kept expecting to hear a knock on the door while he ate his meals. Thoughts of her were like that now. Not a constant barrage of reminders like when he had first realized he'd fallen for her. Rather, she was a guardian angel who could only be sensed in rare glimpses, as though her essence reached across the distance between them when he needed her. She sighed in disappointment when he snapped at a beefy gorilla for heckling the local grocer. The tips of her fingers brushed his when he walked by a newlywed couple posing for their portrait. When he gritted his teeth, feeling like a failure for not being able to haul the ladder he needed for painting without help, her arms wrapped comfortingly around him as she whispered in his ear.

" _You're not useless to me."_

In moments like these, Steve wished he had knocked on the door that Rebecca had closed. He had tried to tell her how he felt about her – a little at any rate – and he thought he'd perceived a hint of those same feelings in her reply. But he wasn't sure and a month was a long time in which Rebecca could change her mind, so he'd left. If only Bucky was around to talk to, but he had returned to basic. So Steve could do nothing but miss them both.

Apart from his friends' absence, not much changed. Steve went to work. He sketched outside when the weather was nice. He went to see a picture if not, and if he had the spare change. He checked up on Mrs. Barnes and Becky, perhaps more often than was warranted in his promise to Bucky, but they always appeared happy to see him.

Then one day, Steve stood outside a recruiting station for over an hour before deciding that he should wait longer for his file to be buried. Except, as he walked away, Steve realized that his reasoning was no more than an excuse to himself. He had barely felt the need to go inside, the fading embers of his anger and sense of duty to his country reduced to the faintest flicker. He had gone to the station out of pure habit. The revelation stunned him, and Steve spent the night staring up at his ceiling, trying to picture his future, which until now had been himself running beside other American soldiers to save the victims of Axis powers.

When the orange light of sunrise peeked through his bedroom window, Steve still didn't know what he wanted. His future was an empty sketchbook with nothing to spark his imagination.

He arrived at work exhausted, nodding a greeting to his fellow artists who had been called together for a project that involved making illustrations for a series of children's books about the war. Some of the writers were trickling in as well, talking to the artists as they all waited for the project's supervisor. Usually Steve would have joined one of the conversations, but he was too tired. He sank into an empty chair, eyes half closed, and let the chatter wash over him.

Steve was on the verge of nodding off when a chair scraped across the floor beside him. He blinked and straightened up, meeting Lawrence's concerned gaze.

"Looks like you had a long night," Lawrence noted. "Not sick, are ya?"

"No," Steve replied.

"Then it seems like you've got a case of the troubles. What's keepin' ya up?"

Steve might not have told him, except he didn't have anyone else to talk to. "I don't know what I want outta life. I thought I did, but now I'm not sure."

"Boy," Lawrence chuckled, shaking his head. "You got all the time in the world to figure that out."

"But I've always been sure. I need to have – I don't know – something. Some purpose. Don't I? Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Mmmm." Lawrence regarded him more seriously. "Those're some hard questions. You tried talkin' with your preacher?"

Steve sighed. "I've prayed, but I don't think it helped."

"Then might be what you need is a different kind of soul searchin'." Lawrence leaned forward in his chair and touched Steve's arm. "You come on over to my place tonight. It's East 132nd and 5th, 1B. It's the door on the street, front and on the left. I'll take you somewhere you might find you answer. Can't promise you will, but ain't no reason you can't try."

"All right," said Steve, willing to go anywhere that would renew his sense of purpose. "Thanks."

"Sure thing." Lawrence patted Steve's arm before relaxing back into his chair. "You come on by at seven and have supper with us. And it's no use arguing 'cause the missus will have my hide if you don't."

To avoid getting Lawrence in trouble, Steve made the trip to Harlem that evening. The Irish quarter of Brooklyn where he lived was a poor neighborhood, but the neighborhood in which Lawrence lived could truly be called a slum. The tenement buildings were crammed tight together like too many cigarettes jammed into a single pack. The red of the bricks had faded; the streets had a thin coating of grime. As the only white among colored, Steve received many suspicious glances. However, other folks he passed averted their gazes meekly, while others greeted him with a polite "good evening." Steve didn't doubt that there was crime in Harlem - being poor could make people desperate – but he didn't buy that all the coloreds were as bad as some of the papers said. They were human, and they had good and bad people like any other race.

Steve shifted a loaf of apple cake to one arm and knocked on the door bearing a crooked '1B.' A boy who looked about ten with Lawrence's warm, brown eyes answered. It took a second, but Steve remembered his name was Willie.

"You c'n come in," Willie invited.

The Thornton's apartment consisted of a single room. Sheets had been strung across the room to divide the kitchen space from what Steve guess was where the family slept. Mrs. Thornton fussed over the stove, Nancy resting on her hip. Leon clung to his mother's skirt, wobbling unsteadily on young legs. June – the oldest at twelve – sat at the table cradling the newest addition to the family, the baby Quincy bundled in a knit wool blanket. Beside her sat Deena, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Lawrence was nowhere in sight.

"You go on and take a seat, Mr. Rogers," said Mrs. Thornton, her accent the same Southern twang as her husband's. "Food'll be done in just a minute." She nodded at the cake loaf in him hands. "You're a sweet boy to bring somethin' along. You can put that on the table."

Steve selected the chair closest to him. "All right if I sit here?" he asked the girls. They nodded. He set the cake on the table and took the chair, attempting to think up something to say. He liked kids, but didn't have any experience with them apart from Bucky's sisters when they were younger. Deena kept sneaking curious glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, so he figured he'd try her. "That's a very pretty dress."

Deena smiled shyly up at him, and Steve felt a flush of success.

"Deena," June chided. "What d'ya say to Mr. Rogers?"

"Thank you," Deena said dutifully.

Behind the sheets, a door opened; the last gurgle of a toilet flush audible. Lawrence entered from a gap between the sheets and the wall, grinning his toothy grin.

"Steve!" he greeted, thumping Steve on the back so hard his eyes watered. Although, to be fair, his spine didn't take on pressure well. "You find us okay?"

"Uh huh."

"Good." Lawrence sniffed the air and sauntered over to his wife. "Smells about done, don't it?"

Mrs. Thornton nodded. "Almost. But don't you dare –" She rapped on his hand with her cooking spoon as Lawrence attempted to dip a finger into the pot. "I swear, our children are more patient than you. Even Nancy's waitin' nice."

At the sound of her name, Nancy gurgled and patted her mother's arm.

"You hear that, Nancy?" Lawrence groaned to his daughter. "Your mamma thinks I'm a terrible example."

Nancy stretched out her hands, oblivious to his words but knowing she had her father's attention. "Up!"

Mrs. Thornton grumbled, "Only most of the time," as she transferred Nancy from her hip into Lawrence's arms. But she smiled when he kissed her cheek, and laughed along with her husband when Nancy thrust her head between them, wanting to be the center of attention. "This one's yours, all right."

"That's for certain," Lawrence agreed, nuzzling briefly against Nancy's hair. "Steve, let me get ya acquainted with everyone, starting with my beautiful wife here, who can out-cook all the women in Harlem and still finds time to read the classics…"

Introductions were made, and then the food was brought over to the table. There weren't enough chairs to go around, but the youngest seemed content sitting in their parents' laps, so Steve didn't feel too badly about having a chair to himself. The older children acted polite, a counterbalance to their enthusiastic siblings. Lawrence asked each one of them what they had learned in school that day.

Steve learned that June adored history class, that Willie had made a new friend at recess, and Deena had gotten an 'A' on her spelling test. He learned that Leon liked to draw with his father's charcoal – he hurried out of the kitchen as fast as his chubby legs could carry him and came back with a sheet of paper that had once been a math test, covered over with black lines in a shape that was supposed to be a tiger. He learned that Nancy had almost stood today, and Quincy's first tooth had begun to show. Mostly what he learned was that the Thornton family had a deep love for one another, and he enjoyed having dinner with them.

After Lawrence had wished each of his children goodnight, Mrs. Thornton saw him and Steve to the door. She straightened her husband's jacket, smoothing the front with careful strokes.

"You boys have a good time."

"We'll sure try," said Lawrence, planting a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Mrs. Thornton turned her eyes on Steve. "Don't let this man get you into any trouble now, ya hear?"

"Will do, ma'am," Steve agreed, although he wasn't the best at staying out of trouble himself. "And thank you for having me to dinner."

"It weren't no bother. Now, go on." She shooed Lawrence affectionately out the door with Steve beside him, "I've got to get the young ones down, and you ain't gonna be any help by stayin'."

"You know how she gets our youngest two down?" Lawrence asked Steve, who shook his head. "By reading Dickens. Works like a charm. Helps me get right to sleep, too."

Smacking her husband lightly on his arm, Mrs. Thornton clucked her tongue and said, "That's 'cause you ain't got no 'preciation for high'r culture." Her lips trembled in a barely contained smile when Lawrence mumbled into her ear, and she smacked him again. "Oh, hush. Go on and get before I decide to send this nice boy home instead of letting him go out with a scoundrel like you."

Grinning, Lawrence did as she asked. He turned right outside the door, and Steve followed beside him. The light was almost gone from the sky, but people still strolled along the sidewalks greeting each other. Lawrence waved to a group of men sitting on a stoop.

"So where are we headed?" Steve asked.

Lawrence pointed along the street. "Just up over that hill there. Can ya hear it?"

Steve listened hard, picking out the sound of cars passing and music. The thump of drums, the blare of the trumpet, the squeal of a saxophone growing louder.

"A jazz club?" Steve guessed, surprised.

"A'yup. You like jazz?"

Steve did, but he had never been to a club that played jazz quite like this. The music sounded more raucous, the rhythms different from the ones he had grown used to in Brooklyn. "Yeah, but… do you really think it'll help?"

Lawrence shrugged. "Music is food for the soul. You get the right band together and listen close, and it's like listening to the universe speaking to ya."

"An artist and a poet. Don't tell me you're a musician too?"

"I do all right on the spoons." Lawrence mimed rapping a set of spoons against his knee.

"You're the white man's nightmare, Lawrence," said Steve dryly. "All those creative abilities but no real purpose in the working class, except to take our jobs."

"Yes'suh, Mastuh Rogers, dat's right. We negroes ain't good fuh nothing,'" bleated Lawrence, bowing his head in exaggerated shame. "Well, 'cept fuh one t'ing. We's real good at reachin' duh top shelf in duh kitchen."

Steve snorted, the right corner of his lips lifting into a smile. "A jab at my height. Very original."

"Forgive a po' black man. I is coming from a race dat don't do not'ing but give lip."

"No, I think that talent's all yours."

Chuckling, Lawrence threw an arm around Steve's shoulders and gave him a friendly shake. "And yours too. Ah, here we are now."

Yellow lights above the entrance bore the club's name, "Roseland Vanguard." The door hung wide open as though the riffs of music couldn't be contained in one space. The people inside seemed as lively as the music. A few were dancing practiced steps, but most shook and hopped to a dance known only to themselves. And not everyone danced in pairs. Friends danced with friends, others danced alone. Some stood with their eyes shut, swaying to the beat. Voices joined in with the band set up on a raised platform at the back, and no one seemed to mind. Stepping inside was like walking into an expressionist painting, a vivid, writhing blend of color and sound. Steve wasn't sure how this place was meant to help him find a glimpse of his future because he could hardly think.

"Is there someplace we can sit?" Steve shouted over the music.

"Jazz ain't meant for sitting," Lawrence replied, pulling Steve into the mass of dancers. "Jazz's meant for moving."

Steve peered desperately through the throng, looking for a table of some kind, but there were no tables. People who needed a break lined the walls, but even they moved slightly to the beat. Steve wondered if he could edge over to a wall anyway. He had only just gotten decent at dancing when there were steps to follow, or a partner to dance along with.

Shuffling to the beat, Lawrence prompted, "Come on, now. Don't tell me you like jazz, but don't like dancing."

"It's just that I'm such a swell dancer, I wouldn't want to make you look bad," Steve joked reflexively, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. The air in the club was thick and warm, and his nerves weren't helping any.

"Then feel the beat and move to it." When Steve hesitated, Lawrence reached out and pushed him lightly back and forth. "Good, now close your eyes and listen."

"Maybe I'll –"

" _Listen_."

Taking a deep breath, Steve closed his eyes. Frankly, he felt like a fool, but he kept swaying even when Lawrence's hands dropped from his shoulders. He focused on the music, picking out the individual parts and then imagining how he would draw their sound. The bass' faint thrumming, each note deep and sure, short, purposeful lines. The trumpet blasted out a melody, sure strokes with small curves of embellishment. The drums thumped on the floor, dashes leaping back and forth across the page. The chords of piano keys, swirling lines intermingling. The saxophone pelting up and down like the hopping dancers around him, swooping lines and jagged peaks.

Which reminded Steve of Leon's drawing. Lawrence had looked so proud of his son, scooping him up off the floor and onto his lap where Leon had explained his tiger with enthusiasm before peering up hopefully for approval.

A dream of years ago resurfaced, one that hadn't seemed so important in the past years. Having a family of his own. Steve imaged sitting at his table, scooping up a boy with his blue eyes who held up a sketch for his approval. A couple of boys, a couple of girls. He had wanted a family like the Barneses or the Thorntons, with enough siblings that none of his children would ever be lonely. And he'd have a wife, who was loving, but strong. Who was independent, but still needed him beside her. Who he could make laugh. Who saw past his disabilities and treated him like a normal person. Someone like… someone like…

Steve opened his eyes as the image of her began to form, soft curves and a radiant smile.

"You find your answer?" Lawrence asked.

Rebecca's lips brushed against his cheek, the feeling of her gentle affection tangible in his memory.

"I don't know," said Steve, as a longing panged in his chest. "Maybe."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Such science. Much jazz. All credit due to various documentaries and websites. Becca and Steve, apart again, but they still can't quite manage to stop thinking about each other. Next week, the identity of J.A.C.K. will be revealed, which I'm looking forward to immensely. See you then!**

 **(Guest: Thank you! You are kind to say so. And I completely understand. Both Steves are just too good.**

 **N: Thanks! Yup. It's never good until you're hurting.** **Crystal H: Thank you! Hope this was worth the wait.)**


	17. JACKed Up

Becca arrived at the Hotel Bedford over an hour before her meeting with J.A.C.K.. She hadn't meant to be so early, but nerves had driven her out the door. What if J.A.C.K. was a time traveler? What if he wasn't? She walked up and down the street, occasionally asking someone for the time before resuming her pacing. He had to be a time traveler, didn't he? No one would journey overseas on the mere hope of talking to a potential fan over the purpose of their science fiction novel. She imagined that customs had to be an absolute nightmare what with the war and refugees were flooding the boats. And yet, J.A.C.K. had called his publisher constantly to check if someone had wanted to contact him. He could be an eccentric with too much spare time and money to burn. Then, she would be back to waiting for future Steve to find her or the war to be over so Howard would be free to experiment again. No, J.A.C.K. had to be a time traveler. He just had to be.

When a young man told her it was 2:50, Becca decided that was close enough to 3:00. She entered the hotel and approached the front desk.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," the concierge greeted.

"Hi. I have a meeting with…" Becca realized that J.A.C.K. might be using his real name, in which case this could become complicated. "…. an author. He goes by J.A.C.K., in his books at least."

Luckily, the concierge nodded, lifting up a paper on his desk and peering at something beneath. "Mrs. Read?"

"Yes."

The concierge dropped the paper and traced a finger down the hotel's guest book. "Mr. McCullough is on the fourteenth floor, Room 14D."

The name was unfamiliar to Becca, but putting a real name to J.A.C.K. made a good start. "Okay. Thanks."

Becca rode the elevator upwards, not even attempting small talk with the operator. Her stomach grew increasingly unsettled with each floor that passed. Months waiting for this meeting, and all her hopes could be met or dashed in an instant. She stepped off the elevator and made her way to 14D. The door was a soft peach color, a normal hotel door, just like all the other doors in the hallway. But the person in the room beyond could end up being one of the most important people she would ever meet. Becca rested her knuckles against the door, bracing herself. Then, she knocked.

Silence on the other side. Becca panicked. No one was going to answer. This had all been for nothing. J.A.C.K. – Mr. McCullough didn't want to see her anymore. She lifted her hand to knock again, and the door opened.

Mr. McCullough was a man of average height and weight, a couple of inches taller than her and a hint of a pot-belly beginning to round his stomach. His graying hair and the lines in his face aged him to mid-fifties or so, but his hazel eyes were bright behind their thick glasses. He was well-dressed, his clothes clean and unwrinkled. All together, Mr. McCullough appeared as unassuming as his door, with two notable exceptions.

One, he wore brown leather gloves, and it definitely wasn't cold enough in the hotel to need them.

Two, there was something… off about the skin on his face and neck. The texture didn't look quite right. The wrinkles he had were too thin, while the rest looked too thick and smooth. Maybe it was the bad hallway lighting?

"Mrs. Read, do come in," Mr. McCullough invited, backing up to make space for her to pass.

Becca stepped inside. He hadn't booked a suite, but the hotel room was a fair size by New York's standards. So Mr. McCullough had money of some sort. If he was a time traveler, she would like to know how he'd gotten enough together to live comfortably. Of course, being male had probably helped.

"Please, have a seat." Mr. McCullough indicated a table by the window with a chair on either side. "They should be coming 'round with tea in a moment. I asked for it to be brought up at three on the dot."

Despite his traveling from Scotland and the traditional offering of tea which Becca associated with Britain, Mr. McCullough didn't have a Scottish accent. But he did have a faint accent of some kind, his vowels coming from deeper in his throat, while the hard consonants sounded light. And he had the same slightly formal manner of speaking that had carried into his letters.

"That sounds nice," said Becca. "Thank you, by the way, for meeting with me."

Mr. McCullough dipped his head politely. "The pleasure was mine. I have been waiting quite some time for a response. I was beginning to think my efforts would prove pointless, and _Golf_ \- Ah, forgive me. I often jump straight into business without remembering my courtesies." He offered a hand. "Jack McCullough."

Well, there was the mystery of the pseudonym solved. Becca was kind of disappointed. She had come up with a whole bunch of theories on what J.A.C.K. might stand for, from a secret time-travelling organization to a futuristic S.O.S. code. "Rebecca Read." She shook his hand before setting down her purse and placing her jacket over the back of the chair she sat in.

"I understand that you're a reporter for _The Housewife's Home Magazine_?" Mr. McCullough said, perching on his own seat.

"Uh, well, no. Actually, I'm not." Becca had come to the conclusion that the truth would be more beneficial than a lie if he asked about her profession, a carefully considered risk. "I was a hotel maid when I went to ask about you at Oxford University Press. Now I'm a book binder."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I really wanted to speak with you, and I thought pretending to be a reporter was the only way I'd have that chance."

"I see." Mr. McCullough leveled her with a considering look, while Becca held her breath.

But while waiting for his response, she was distracted again by his skin. The dimmer lights of the hallway were obviously not to blame for the strangeness of the texture. In fact, Becca noticed how in the brighter light of the room, another peculiarity had been revealed. His skin didn't shine, not even on the tip of his nose. It couldn't be that – was Mr. McCullough wearing foundation? That's exactly what it looked like. He had done a good job of blending and everything, but if the foundation itself was mediocre, the application was never seamless.

Now, Becca knew there were some men who used makeup, but she also knew that makeup on a man wouldn't be acceptable in today's society, even if it was only foundation. And Mr. McCullough seemed like he conformed to the Forties standard otherwise. So either she had misjudged him, or Mr. McCullough needed to cover up his skin. The latter would make sense, since he had also covered his hands. Because there was something wrong, like a skin tone that didn't belong on this planet? Or crazy, futuristic tattoos?

Becca's heart leapt, and she chewed the inside of her lip to keep from blurting out the question.

Finally, Mr. McCullough asked, "So you enjoyed _Golf in the Year 2000_ , then?"

"I did." Becca weighed her words as she spoke them, trying to give hints that a time traveler would pick up on. "I thought you had some very interesting ideas about the future, like the watches and trains. Although, I'm not sure about the talking golf jackets."

Did his eyes narrow for a moment? Becca didn't trust herself enough to be sure.

"What do you –?"

A knock on the door interrupted Mr. McCullough's question. Becca wished he hadn't ordered tea. This conversation was way more important. But she made herself sit still while he got up to answer the door. A maid came in with a cart, and set tea and a plate of sandwiches on the table. Becca nodded when Mr. McCullough held up the pot, allowing him to pour her a cup.

However, the moment the maid left, she prompted, "You were saying?"

Mr. McCullough poured himself a cup of tea in frustrating silence. "Milk?" he offered.

"No, thanks."

He poured milk into his own tea, and lifted a cube of sugar with tongs. "Sugar?"

"No." Becca didn't care about the tea. She didn't want the tea. She wanted to know if Mr. McCullough was from this time period or not.

After taking a sip from his cup, Mr. McCullough inquired, "What do you think is the reason I wrote _Golf_?"

A lot of thought had gone into her answer because this was the one question Becca was certain would be asked. "I think that you have an idea of what the future will be like, and you're looking for someone else who has the same idea."

"Hmmm." Mr. McCullough took another sip, his expression betraying nothing. "So you believe my novel is an accurate portrayal of what life will be in 2000?"

"Not exactly. It's supposed to be a comedy, so I think there are exaggerations and some things put in for comedic effect. And maybe there are some things you left out."

"Such as?"

Becca paused. This was the moment to lay out her ace in the hole. Mr. McCullough hadn't kicked her out for lying about her job, and he hadn't dismissed her guess about his motivations. She slid a hand beneath the skirt of her dress and retrieved her cell phone from its secret pouch.

"This." She set her phone down on the table.

As Becca had been hoping for a gasp or eyes widening in recognition, she was disappointed when Mr. McCullough frowned. He picked up her phone.

"And what would this be?" he questioned.

"A phone."

Still, Mr. McCullough frowned. Becca drooped in her chair. Even if Mr. McCullough had been an alien, he knew enough about the future on Earth that it seemed impossible he wouldn't have seen a cell phone or at least heard about them. How could he describe what a train would look like but not recognize an iPhone?

"Never mind," said Becca, disappointed crushing down on her. "I think I've made a mistake. I can take that back." She held out her hand for the phone, but Mr. McCullough continued his examination.

"A… cellular phone?"

Becca's mouth gaped. Holy shit, he _did_ know what a cell phone was! "Yeah. Yeah, this – this is a cell phone."

"Ah ha, I see." Mr. McCullough held her phone out. "These are quite obsolete in my time."

Becca's mind was reeling. While she had been anticipating the possibility that the mysterious J.A.C.K. was a time traveler, finding out that he was from another time stunned her nevertheless. Because she wasn't alone anymore. She wasn't the only one!

Her hand shook as she took the phone back and returned it to the hidden pouch. "When are you from?"

"2037."

Becca blinked. In her time, cell phone weren't going to exist in just over twenty years? That didn't seem right. "Really? Because I'm from 2016, and I know technology develops fast, but damn."

"2016 CE?" Unsure what he meant, Becca mulled over possibilities until Mr. McCullough specified, "Common Era?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah. But then, you're not?" To mark another era, Becca figured something big must have happened.

"No," Mr. McCullough replied. "Before traveling, I was in 2037 ACE, After Common Era." He leaned closer, eyes twinkling curiously. "You've traveled from the last year of the Common Era."

"What? But…" Becca trailed off. Hang on. Something big must have happened to create a whole new era. Thanos had killed a whole ton of people and done who knew what else to the planet. But if there were people alive afterwards, that could only mean one thing. "We won. We won!"

Mr. McCullough cocked his head. "The Infinity Wars? Yes, but at great cost, of course."

Becca nearly jumped out her chair in happiness. The Avengers had beaten Thanos! Which meant Steve would be looking for her! Unless Steve hadn't made it, unless he was part of the cost.

"How much do you know about the Infinity Wars?" she demanded, her exhilaration suddenly tampered by fear.

With a shrug and a hint of a smile, Mr. McCullough replied, "A fair amount."

"Did Steve survive? Captain America?"

"Perhaps."

Gripping the edge of the table, Becca fixed him with her most intimidating glare. This wasn't a joke. He didn't get to smile and gave vague answers. "Did. Steve. Survive?"

Mr. McCullough's brow furrowed in bewilderment, but then, at last, he looked surprised. "You're his wife."

Nodding, Becca stated, "I'm Becca Rogers. Now tell me if my husband survived the war."

"Well… well, well, well…" Mr. McCullough swallowed a mouthful of tea. "All right, yes, he survived." Becca sagged in relief, her hands throbbing as she released the table's edge. "And I think it only fitting that I reintroduce myself." He pulled off a glove and extended his hand. His skin was green. Not Halloween witch green, but a very faint shade, as though his skin had once been normal human skin that had taken on a sickly green tinge. "Jazden ben Cthora-Kingsley. I believe you know of my mother, Gamora."

Becca did remember her from the battle, and recalled that her skin had been a vibrant green. She shook his hand. "I do. And let me guess, your middle name begins with 'a'?"

"It's 'Able,'" he revealed, tugging his glove back on. "So you see I am J.A.C.K. in a way. And I have grown fond of the name, so you may use it."

"Okay. Jack." With the worst of her nerves gone, Becca decided to have some tea. She took a sip. Blah, very bitter black tea. She helped herself to three cubes of sugar. "Do you know when or if I get home?"

"I am sorry to say that I don't," Jack apologized.

"That's okay," Becca sighed. Thanos was defeated, and Steve was alive. He would come looking for her. "Are you stuck here too or…?"

"I arrived in Scotland in 1873, and have been living there ever since."

"Wow, you're looking good for your age."

Jack chuckled. "With my heritage, I age more slowly than those with fully human DNA."

"Makes sense." Becca tried her tea again. Much better. "You must have to move around then. Or do you live away from people?"

"Most fortunately, I have only moved once, but I do also live away from most people. It is simply easier what with my… verdigris."

It'd be a shame to waste the sandwiches, so Becca picked one of the halves up. "I'm sorry. That must be hard."

"Oh, not for the most part," Jack assured her blithely. "I have always preferred my own company."

Which would make time traveling easier, Becca supposed. "How'd you get here anyway? Obviously, you know my story, but I'd like to hear yours."

"Well…" Jack settled into his chair in a way that prepared Becca for a long tale. "I suppose my story begins about the same time as yours. You see, after the Infinity Wars, those who had fought were left with one last problem. What was to become of the Infinity Stones? They could not be destroyed, but neither could they be entrusted to various worlds that may one day do wrong with them. So it was decided that the Stones would be divided up between various protectors, a group known collectively as the Infinity Watch. The Stones would then be passed down generation to generation, granted to a family member the Watch deemed worthy.

"Gamora was charged with the Time Stone. I was a favored child of hers, and upon her death, it was decided that I would be protector of the Stone. I felt honored when the Watch came to me, and accepted the duty."

Jack sighed, a look of deep regret settling onto his features. "For years, I upheld my oath to safeguard, but never wield, the Stone. But then I began to wonder if the Stone might help me to understand the effects of time upon the mind. So I began to experiment without comprehending the true depth of its power, plunging ahead certain I would make a great discovery, but I overreached. I sent myself backward in time, while the Stone remained in the machine I had built."

Hearing that he didn't have the Stone was a huge let down. As soon as Jack had said he was a part of this Watch group, Becca had thought they could use the Stone to get back. All her problems solved in an instant. But no, the road home would never be a straight path. Rather, it was a maze with a hundred dead ends in which she traced the walls back and back again, searching for a way out. And Jack could still lead her to the exit, so she listened intently as he continued.

"I was lucky in that I came through onto the property of Brennan McCullough in a small village called Netherley. One of his elderly stable hands found me. Convinced I was a goblin, he started making a racket to ward me off. Brennan came outside and asked what I was about. I was distraught, but I had enough of my wits about me to tell him that I was lost. He invited me inside."

Jack smiled fondly. "Brennan was a good man. He came of the opinion that I had a rare disease, and took me under his protection. When I told him that I didn't wish to find a cure, he allowed me to live in his house unseen. Before he passed away, he told me that I reminded him of his son who had died, a boy named Jack." He sipped his tea. "After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the universe will always attempt to reassert itself when one meddles in time, and will let us know by creating coincidences that are, in fact, something more. Brennan had a boy named Jack. My initials were J.A.C.K. And when Brennan died and left me his fortune, I became Jack McCullough."

Becca was so engrossed in the tale that her sandwich remained half eaten in her hand. His story sounded like a movie, scientist gets greedy and messes with time only to have something bad happen along the way. But she believed him one-hundred percent.

"Did you ever try to get back home?" she questioned, wondering if his experiments with the Stone had give him any ideas they could use.

"No," said Jack, to her surprise. "I believe I should live out my life here, as the universe intends. It is a fitting punishment."

"But you understand now that what you did was wrong," Becca pointed out. Otherwise, he wouldn't have condemned himself to what basically amounted to exile. "You shouldn't have to punish yourself forever."

Firmly, Jack asserted, "I will not attempt to leave. And even if I wanted to do so, I have only discovered a glimpse of where to start. My primary field of study is neuro-technology, not quantum mechanics."

"But there must be a part of you that wants to leave," Becca pressed, out of empathy, but also because she'd like his help. "You reached out with _Golf_ , didn't you? You wanted to see if there was anyone else out there. You found me. You tracked me down with your letter. Which, by the way, how did you find where I lived?"

Jack selected a sandwich and examined the layers of meats and cheeses. "As I have understood your need for deception, I hope you can understand my need for secrecy. I had a man in my employment follow you from the publishing house so that he would know where to deliver my letter."

Creepy. Becca's skin prickled at the thought of being followed, but she did understand that this was a delicate situation. Jack must have been worried about who else might have been traveling with the Stone, and he was probably afraid of messing with time again.

"It's okay," said Becca . "Would you mind telling me about your experiments, though? I'm not a scientist, but if I –"

"No."

Becca mouthed formless words, having not anticipated a flat-out rejection. If Jack didn't want to go home that was one thing, but couldn't he give her some information? "I only wanted –"

Jack held up his hand, and Becca stuttered into silence. "You want to get back to your time, and you are hoping that my experiments can help you in some way. I will tell you now that they cannot, and even if I were to possess such knowledge, I would not let that knowledge pass to another. Even –" he added when Becca opened her mouth to assure him that she'd be discreet, "– if they have nothing but good intentions. The universe seeks balance, and passing through time upsets that balance. I know this now and will have no part in upsetting it."

Arguments crowded Becca's lips, and she bit them back. Finding out about Jack's experiments or getting his input on Howard's theories would have been nice, but Becca supposed she could settle for knowing that she had another unwilling time traveler to talk to for a while. She was usually a good judge of character, and Jack seemed the kind that would have to be broken down slowly.

"Fine. But just know that if you change your mind, maybe we can help each other," Becca offered. Whether it was him finally caving or Steve rescuing her or Howard figuring out Einstein-Rosen Bridges, she was going to make sure Jack had a chance to go home.

"You are kind to offer."

Both Becca and Jack made their way through their sandwich halves, contemplating each other with quick glances.

"So does everyone talk formally in the future?" Becca asked to switch to a lighter subject.

"My speech does sound somewhat formal in this time, doesn't it?" agreed Jack, the lingering seriousness in his manner all but vanishing. "It is the accepted form of the cross-galaxy English language."

Naturally, his answer spurred a million questions about his future, but Jack answered hardly any of them. His explanation was one Becca accepted; he was worried about the butterfly effect. She wouldn't have told anyone – on purpose – about his future, but she didn't push the issue. He had learned the hard way about messing with time. However, she happily answered all of his questions about the 21st century, since her time was technically his past. Plus, it was really, really nice to talk about normal things like e-mail and concerns about global warming.

Hours later – the tea had gone and so had the dinner Jack ordered for them – Becca's throat had grown sore from talking, but she would have gone on if Jack hadn't noted the late hour.

"Oh, sorry," Becca apologized. She got up, shrugged on her jacket, and picked up her purse from the floor. "Thanks for dinner. It's been great talking to you. I can't even thank you enough for coming all the way over from Scotland to see me in the middle of World War Two."

"My pleasure," Jack declared. He shook her hand a final time. "It has been a very pleasant afternoon and evening. I will be remaining in New York for a short holiday, so you may visit again if you would like. I have some business to attend to, however, so if I am not here when you arrive, leave your name at the desk and a date and time, and I will do my utmost to be here."

"Sounds good. I will definitely take you up on your offer." Likely more than once.

Jack saw her to the door. "Have a good night, Becca."

"You too." Suddenly, Becca remembered a question she had wanted to ask, but forgotten in all the talk about her century. "Hold on. Just one more question." Jack flicked his wrist, an indication to go ahead. "Why center your story around golf of all things?"

"Because playing golf is my favorite pastime," replied Jack, eyebrows pinching together as though the answer was obvious. "While my preface was admittedly vague, I did think that was the one aspect I was quite clear on."

Becca had to laugh. She was sure that Jack's future was very different from hers, but apparently middle aged men still liked playing golf. "Some things never change, I guess." And that was weirdly comforting.

"Yes," agreed Jack. "It seems some things are meant to stay just as they are."

* * *

Steve locked the door to his apartment. The evening was a mild one, and he had decided to go for a walk and do some sketching. He descended the steps and turned left along the sidewalk. Bucky was coming home from basic today, and Steve was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. They've have about a week together before Bucky got his orders, and Steve meant to make the most of it. And the end of the month meant Rebecca should be coming back soon, too. He was less sure how he felt about seeing her. He did miss her, and he did want to see her. But although weeks had passed, he hadn't the faintest clue what he was going to do when he saw her again.

Well, Steve figured he didn't have to worry about that tonight. She was still off watching over those kids. No, he didn't want to think about her with the kids. Every time he did since the jazz club, they ended up having his blue eyes and her freckles. And then he felt all muddled up, yearning, nervous, aching in his chest like his heart had finally decided to give up. Not this evening. This evening he was going for a quiet, peaceful walk. And if that didn't work, he was going to drown out his thoughts in the noise of a club and wait for some dumb gorilla to start bothering one of the dames.

In his head, Rebecca sighed.

Steve walked faster. And faster. His lungs began to burn, but he ignored them, weaving through the people strolling along the sidewalk.

"Hey! Hey, Steve! Wait up, will ya?!"

Steve stopped short. That was Bucky's voice. He turned and saw Bucky jogging up behind him. With relief, he threw his arms around his best friend. Bucky, he understood. Everything always felt all right with Bucky.

Bucky returned his hug, patting Steve twice on the back. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," said Steve. And he was, mostly. "Out for a walk."

"You call that a walk?" Bucky released Steve from the hug, eyeing him skeptically. "Seemed more like a run."

"Well, running is just fast walking, isn't it? So I was out for a fast walk."

"All right. Then, you mind if I come on your fast walk with you?"

"We can go for a regular walk. That way you can keep up."

Bucky grinned, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "Sounds fine to me."

They walked side by side down the sidewalk, while Steve questioned Bucky about the rest of basic and Bucky asked about what he'd been up to since the wedding. Steve laid out his ideas for places they could go this week, old haunts they could visit, and other places they could try. There was a new art museum on 6th that had Steve excited, which he ended up rambling on about while Bucky listened with amusement.

"I was planning on getting some sleep this week," said Bucky, when they had settled on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park. "But this all sounds swell, so I guess I can do without."

"We don't have to do everything," Steve assured him. He knew that Bucky would want to spend time with his family and other friends before leaving. Although, he wouldn't mind having Bucky all to himself. "I figured I'd tell you everything, and then you can pick what you want."

"All right, but you've given me a lot to think about, so I'll let you know tomorrow, huh? Let's ease up for tonight."

"Sure."

Steve shut his mouth, which he knew had been open for too long. Sometime he and Bucky could just sit and be quiet, and he guessed Bucky could probably use that after the chaos of basic. He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook and cast about for an interesting subject. There was Bucky, of course, but Bucky would tease him about not drawing pretty girls instead. Steve inspected the other benches, searching for someone else. His gaze lingered on a couple smiling down at their newborn baby.

"Have you thought about what you're gonna do when you get back from Europe?" he asked abruptly.

Bucky laughed. "I haven't even left yet."

"I know, but… you haven't talked about anything past joining up since the war started. Now that you're going, I figured you might be thinking about afterwards."

"Hmm. I haven't been." Bucky tipped his head back, staring contemplatively up at the sky. "When I come home with the uniform and a bunch of medals, I supposed the dames will be lining up."

"As if they don't already," Steve muttered.

Bucky's grin widened. "But the line will be twice as long. I'll pick the best girl, get hitched, have a bunch of kids." He shook Steve's shoulder. "You'll get to be Uncle Stevie, the famous artist and favorite uncle, who they'll all outgrow by age ten."

Steve rolled his shoulder, trying to throw Bucky off. "I'm not _that_ short."

"Course you're not." With a good-natured squeeze, Bucky let go. "Then, I guess – I guess if I had enough money saved up, I'd take the family somewhere quiet. Not too far away. I want to be able to keep an eye on the girls and Ma, but somewhere north of here maybe. Like we talked about when we were kids, you know?"

Though he nodded, Steve had never wanted to leave the city. Moving to a nicer part would be swell, but he liked the busyness and the noise, the different people and cultures all melding together. He had only agreed to move back then because he couldn't imagine life without Bucky.

"Why are you asking, anyway?" Bucky gave him a searching look. "Been thinking about the future yourself? Maybe picturing a certain blonde-haired lady cooking you breakfast?"

"No," Steve blurted. And he hadn't been until Bucky mentioned it. But now he was picturing Becca in a pale pink nightgown, a robe tied loosely around her waist. She dropped a piece of bread onto the pan and glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling. Steve's gaze flicked toward the couple with the baby.

Bucky caught the quick movement and followed it. "But you've been thinking about making babies with a certain blonde-haired lady?"

The back of Steve's neck burned. He reached back to rub it. "No." However, this protest was a lie. He had woken up this past Monday with the uncomfortable effects of a half-remembered dream of his face buried between Rebbeca's breasts and his name on her lips.

"Want some advice?" Bucky offered.

"I want to talk about something else."

"You sure? 'Cause I'll only be here for so long, and then you'll have to figure it all out on your own."

"I'm not _figuring out_ anything." Steve bent his head over his sketchbook and drew random lines, throwing Bucky a hint he didn't take.

"Why not?" Bucky tossed an arm casually around him. "Becky told me that Rebecca's coming home soon, and she's probably sick and tired of having to run around with a couple of swells' nasty kids. Get her some flowers, take her somewhere peaceful. Or take her dancing; I heard she likes that."

"She does, but…"

"This isn't still about joining the army, is it?" Bucky asked in exasperation. "Cause you haven't mentioned that once. You haven't said one thing about how you should be going with me. You know, I bet you haven't even thought about it since we started walking. But you've thought about her, and that says something."

He was right. Steve hadn't had a single thought about joining the army, even while talking to Bucky about basic. But he still shook his head. "It's not about the army."

"Is it about that man you thought she was sweet on?"

"No."

"Then, what?" Steve rubbed a hand across his face. He spent enough time contemplating that he'd figured out the problem, but he didn't want to admit his feelings out loud. Yet, when Bucky demanded, "What?" again, it burst out.

"I'm scared, all right! I'm scared."

"Of Rebecca?" Bucky laughed, which made Steve feel like slugging him.

"I'm not scared of Rebecca. I'm not scared of anyone," Steve snapped, tossing down his sketchbook onto the bench with so much force that it bounced off and onto the ground.

Bucky stopped laughing. "Hey, I'm sorry." He picked up the sketchbook and brushed off the dirt. "What are you scared of?"

Crossing his arms, Steve stared out at the water in silence. He was hurt that Bucky had laughed over something that had really been bothering him, like his feelings were a joke. The only other time in his life that Steve remembered feeling afraid was when Ma had gotten sick. That had been worse, but this was no picnic. Bucky was his best friend, the one person who wasn't supposed to laugh at him.

"Don't be like this," Bucky pleaded, offering the sketchbook like a peace treaty. "I shouldn't have laughed. I just couldn't believe you'd be scared of someone sweet like Rebecca. Will you talk to me, please? I wanna help."

Steve met Bucky's gaze and sighed. He couldn't stay mad at Bucky, even when he wanted to. "You're a jerk," he grumbled, taking his sketchbook back.

For once, Bucky didn't offer up any comment in reply. "So what's the deal?"

"I'm scared she'll say 'no,'" Steve admitted.

"Is that all?" scoffed Bucky. Steve glared at him, at which Bucky held up his hands. "Don't get mad. It's just, of course you're scared. You like her, maybe more than you've liked any other dame. Every guy gets scared when they're asking after someone they've fallen real hard for."

Steve snorted. "You don't."

"Oh, you don't thinks so?" said Bucky, raising his eyebrows. "Mary Bolingbroke, you remember her?"

"Sure I do," Steve replied. Bucky had dated her for two years in high school.

"Well, right before I asked her to go out to the ice cream counter at Donald's Pharmacy that first time, she asked if I felt sick 'cause I was sweating so much."

"You never told me that."

Bucky shrugged. "Wasn't important until now. You've got to try, Steve. She could say 'no,' but you won't get a 'yes' if you don't ask at all. And I think you'll get one if you do."

Steve considered. He had never imagined that Bucky got nervous about girls. He had always seemed so confident. And why shouldn't he be? The only girls who had ever said 'no' to him about anything were his sisters. However, Steve had never gotten anything but rejection, which had stung. But if Rebecca turned him down, he knew it would hurt a hell of a lot worse. And he didn't want to lose her as a friend.

"I don't know," Steve mumbled.

Bucky made a disappointed noise. "I'm gonna have to make you see what you're missing out on."

"How?" Steve asked, nervous about what Bucky would come up with.

"I don't know yet." The corner of Bucky's lips twitched up into a cocky smile. "But I'll think of something."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Finally, the identity of J.A.C.K. revealed! A bit of an explanation on the backstory he gave. Jack is a character of my own invention. As far as I am aware, Gamora never had children. However, the Infinity Watch is a group that formed in the comics with Gamora - somewhat unwillingly - appointed as protector of the Time Stone. The other characters in the Watch that MCU fans will know are Drax, who was in charge of the Power Stone, and Thanos, who is granted the Reality Stone . (Yes, even after everything he did with the gauntlet because... reasons.) I'm not sure if the MCU will include the Infinity Watch, but I think they make an interesting group, hence my using them in this story.**

 **Tune in next week to find out just what Bucky's up to. See you soon, lovelies.**

 **(Guest: Aw, thank. One little - or big - mystery down! A few more to go.**

 **Crystal H: Hail to the inner nerd. Or outer nerd. Just, all the nerd. I never thought about writing a time traveling story with just Howard, but it is an intriguing idea. I'll keep you posted, but one fic at at time is plenty for me haha We've still got over a fourth left on this one to get through.)**


	18. The Butterfly Effect

Fireworks burst overhead, sending bright flashes of color over the World of Tomorrow exhibition. Crowds flocked to the various exhibits and lined up to ride a sleeker version of a European suspension railway. The air buzzed with excitement, but Steve felt miserable.

Bucky was leaving. The week they'd had together had gone by too fast, and now they would be spending, at best, months apart. At worst, he might never come home. Seeing him in his army uniform had rekindled Steve's desire to go overseas, if not to be useful to the army, then to make sure Bucky would be all right. But even if the army finally took him, it wouldn't be soon enough to get stationed alongside his friend's battalion.

"I don't see what the problem is," said Bucky, who didn't seem the least bit concerned about leaving. He had been trying to cheer Steve up since breaking up his latest fight in the alley beside the local theater. "You're about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know there's three and a half million women here?"

Steve thoughts turned immediately toward Rebecca. "Well, I'd settle for just one."

"Good thing I took care of that." Bucky waved a hand.

Startled, Steve looked in that direction, expecting to see her. He had been anticipating Bucky to pull something after his promise to 'make you see what you're missing out on.' Steve couldn't wait to see Rebecca again, but he was also terrified. All of his insides felt like they were lifting and contracting at once, unsettling him. Steve swallowed hard as he searched the crowd for her face.

A girl waved back and called, "Hey, Bucky!"

She wasn't Rebecca, and neither was the girl standing beside her. Of course not, Steve realized; Bucky didn't have a clue where Rebecca lived. Steve didn't know why he'd thought otherwise. And he had gone on enough double-dates to know this would be another one. His insides sank back down.

"What'd you tell her about me?"

Bucky shrugged a shoulder. "Only the good stuff. Or I told her friend the good stuff, but I'm sure she passed it along."

Since the brunette had called Bucky's name, Steve guessed the other girl had to be his date. He ran a hand self-consciously through his hair. She looked swell, even at a distance, the kind of dame any man should be happy to be set up with. But Steve didn't feel happy to see her, or anxious, or even resigned. He just felt disappointed.

"I'm not sure about this," he murmured.

"Too bad."

"Buck –"

"If you're not gonna ask Rebecca on a date, you should find another dame," interrupted Bucky as they walked toward the girls. "And I know you won't do it on your own."

Despite the undeniable truth of that statement, Steve protested, "I might."

"Now you don't have to. And look at her." Bucky nodded toward the blonde girl and winked. "She's much prettier."

"No, she isn't. Not by _much_."

Steve supposed if asked to choose between the two, most people would say this girl was more beautiful than Rebecca. And yes, he supposed that he agreed. Rebecca wasn't dynamite. He knew this from a sketch he had done, constantly comparing her shape to textbook forms in his mind. Her weight wasn't exactly proportionate. Her eyes were too wide to balance her small mouth. Her elbows and knees were oddly bony for her otherwise rounded lines. Her carefully done hair always had a few locks that slipped out of place.

But Rebecca had curves other women would envy. She had sweet, little dimples that appeared when she smiled. Her hair had a thickness like a heavy, velvet curtain that begged to be touched. And no matter what the magazines said, and no matter how much she hated them, her freckles were perfectly, uniquely beautiful. So Steve thought she was plenty pretty. Besides, being pretty wasn't everything. He'd learned that from some of the other girls Bucky had set him up with.

"Yeah?" Bucky shook his head, making Steve frown. "'Cause, you know, I thought about it, and you can do a lot better than Rebecca."

Anger pounded at the base of Steve's skull, and his fingers curled at his sides. "Shut your trap about Rebecca, all right?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You barely know her."

Bucky gave him a look that was far too smug. "All right, I'm sorry. But smile, would ya? You're gonna scare off our dates."

Steve almost said it would have served him right, but that wouldn't have been fair to the girls. They weren't the ones making him mad. A smile was impossible, but he forced his expression into something that appeared pleasant enough. He hoped.

"Ladies," Bucky greeted, tucking a hand into his pants pocket. He managed to look handsome and clean cut in his uniform, and yet roguishly casual, a balance Steve knew that he could never achieve in his wildest dreams. But he was only a little envious. After so many dates, he had accepted that he would inevitably appear shabby beside Bucky.

Sure enough, when his date glanced from Bucky to him, her lips twitched as disappointment passed behind her gaze. Steve could already see this was going to be a long night.

"Connie, there's something different about you," Bucky noted.

The brunette, Connie, shifted her weight to one hip. "There is?"

"I think so. Don't tell me." He looked her over. "I know what it is. You got prettier."

Connie giggled, her eyes shining. "Oh, is that all? I thought you might mean my dress. I picked it out special."

"It's a swell dress, but I have to say, you can't expect a guy to notice the dress with a face like yours." Bucky nodded to Steve's date. "And I see that you brought along your prettiest friend, too. We got lucky, huh Steve?"

Steve nodded to be polite.

Connie giggled again and touched her friend's shoulder. "This is Bonnie."

"Bernadette, if you don't mind," her friend interjected. "I decided that I like the sound of it better."

Bucky agreed, "Your right. It's a beautiful name." He put an arm around Steve and shook him slightly. "This is Steve."

"Hello," said Steve.

"Hi," Bernadette replied, and then stared like she expected him to say something more.

Only Steve didn't know what. He didn't much want to talk to her, which didn't help. Even looking at her, all he could hear in his head was Bucky saying that she was prettier and better than Rebecca. Which wasn't Bernadette's fault, and that was why Steve didn't excuse himself immediately. She deserved a chance. Also, he didn't want to completely ruin his last night with Bucky.

When neither of them said anything further, Bucky jumped in. "So do you ladies have any idea of where you'd like to go first?"

"Let's go that way," Connie suggested, pointing past the giant statue of Earth that stood at the center of Flushing Meadows. "I don't want to miss the show. I've heard that they've got a new invention that you have to see to believe."

"That way it is." Bucky chuckled as she hustled off at a near run, and followed quickly behind.

Unexpectedly, Bernadette remained alongside Steve as he trailed after. She ventured, "I heard that you're an artist?"

"Yeah," Steve affirmed.

"Do you paint? I think paintings are aces."

"No. I sketch."

"Oh." Bernadette looked disappointed for the second time since they'd met. "Do you sketch people or landscapes or…"

"Everything," said Steve with a shrug.

"That sounds interesting."

"It's all right."

Silence seeped between them like water rising from a sewer drain, spoiling what little conversation they had started. Steve knew he was responsible, but it took almost a minute before he came up with a topic that seemed workable.

"Do you have a favorite painter?" he asked.

Bernadette shook her head. "No, but I have a favorite painting. It's called 'Table for Ladies.'"

"I'm not sure I know that one."

"I saw it at the Met. It's inside a restaurant, and there are two people eating at a table and two women working," Bernadette explained, smiling at the memory of the painting. "I love the bright colors. It makes that scene look nice and cheerful. I'd like to get a print sometime to hang in my apartment."

Grateful that he would not have to spend the night in a state of quiet misery, Steve informed her, "I remember the painting now. It's a Hopper. And the bright colors are meant as an irony. See, Hopper's paintings are about how lonely and worn down people who live in a city are. I think the reason there are only two diners is because he's commentating on the state of the Depression, and how not a lot of people could afford to go out for dinner, you know? And that's why there are those dark shadows in the mirrors."

Then, he realized that Bernadette's smile had faded, and he'd probably ruined her favorite painting. "But your interpretation is good, too," he offered lamely.

Bernadette sighed, "Maybe we should catch up with Connie and Bucky."

"All right."

Steve watched her hurry over to where their friends had stopped by a large tank in which a man with a contraption strapped to his back was swimming underwater. He had gone and gummed up once again. He shouldn't even bother trying to talk to women. Just when he thought he'd figured out how, they proved him wrong.

Only Rebecca never seemed to mind. She'd give him a nudge and say something teasing like, "Jeez, this has gotten a little too heavy. Let's talk about something lighter, like the horrors of immigration."And she'd laugh when he started talking about just that. However, she would listen too, and had her own opinions, which she was willing to defend. He hadn't talked with too many women who could to that.

" _I learned a loooong time ago that getting talked at about social issues not only makes you feel freaking stupid, but it's incredibly boring. Now I pay attention. So, lay it on me."_

Eventually, Rebecca would get tired of talking politics –with the exception of the war, which she plain avoided – but Steve enjoyed their debates while they lasted. Or maybe 'discussions' was a better word, since they agreed a lot.

Gosh, he missed her.

As the evening wore on, Steve felt as though he were missing her more and more. Bernadette made two further attempts to talk with him, this time about the various exhibits, but those attempts went about as well as their first conversation.

"All I'm trying to say is that none of these inventions seem to be useful to everyone," Steve argued exasperatedly. "Just listen to that."

On a speaker above their heads, a male voice announced, "Welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow. A greater world. A better world."

Steve continued, "See? A _better world_. You think they'd have at least one invention that was working towards, I don't know, solving poverty or hunger or – or something that affects people all over the world."

"Which this invention does," insisted Bernadette, gesturing to an exhibit called 'The Synthetic Man' which displayed a dummy wearing a red one-piece suit. "This is made of fabric that doesn't burn. Maybe we'll all be wearing this in the future."

"I don't think so." The suit looked very uncomfortable to Steve. He couldn't imagine himself ever wearing something that tight, never mind everyone else. "It's a good invention. It can help save lives, sure, but someone needs to be looking at the bigger picture, not just making flashy products that belong in a science fiction film."

Bucky nodded in agreement, a show of support which Steve appreciated. "You've gotta admit, he does have a point." When Bernadette huffed at him, he added, "But I think you make a good point, too. This suit could be used to save some firemen, and who knows? We could be wearing it in ten years. I personally think this one would look stunning in red." He winked at Connie.

"Oh, I don't know," said Connie, inspecting the suit dubiously. "I think blue's more my color. Now, I want to go see what that glowing purple lamp with all the bubbles is before the show starts."

As they made their way towards the purple lamp, Steve shoved his fists in his jacket pockets. His right hand bumped into the half eaten bag of candied nuts he'd been sharing with Bucky earlier. He took it out and tossed a few candied nuts into his mouth, annoyed that he'd let himself get so worked up on Bucky's last date before shipping overseas. Bucky didn't need to be put in the middle of an uncomfortable situation, even if he was good at smoothing them over. Tonight, Steve knew it would be better if he faded into the background, like on all their other dates.

Before they reached the purple lamp, Connie squealed with anticipation that the show was starting. She dragged Bucky by the hand towards the stage with Bernadette jogging beside them. Steve came up behind as Howard Stark took the stage. He, like Bucky, had an easy confidence and a clear way with women, kissing one of them on the mouth for a couple of seconds in front of everyone. It was a good thing this wasn't the Howard who had helped Rebecca with her clock or he would have lost her for sure.

Mr. Stark addressed the crowd in front of a shiny red car. "Ladies and gentlemen, what if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all?"

Bernadette stood in front of Steve, her back a reminder of their argument. She deserved a better date than him. She had tried to be nice, which was more than he could say for a lot of his dates.

As an apology, Steve held the bag of candied nuts over her shoulder. Bernadette glanced at him in disgust and turned back around. Well, that hadn't done any good.

The wheels beneath the car were removed as Mr. Stark proclaimed, "With Stark Gravitic Reversion Technology, you'll be able to do just that."

Steve stared glumly down at the bag in his hand, thinking how Rebecca would have taken some of the candied nuts. She would have thanked him, too. He returned the bag to his pocket, wishing a different blonde was standing in front of him. In fact, he would like her standing beside him. His eyes rose to Connie's hand holding Bucky's. And he would like it even more with his hand and Rebecca's intertwined.

On the stage, the red car hummed and rose into the air.

"Holy cow," Bucky murmured.

Watching the car hover impossibly, Steve was filled with the overwhelming sense that he didn't belong here. Not really because of the car, but because of the future it represented, flashy, nonsensical. And he didn't belong on this date with a woman who didn't understand or care about him. And he didn't belong forgotten behind the backs of everyone else, whether they were trying to shut him out or just plain forgot about him. He wanted more than this. He deserved more than this.

Steve looked behind him, past the lights and exhibits. A recruiting station had been set up on the fringe of the exhibition. He gazed at it for a few seconds and made a decision. Later tonight, he would find Bucky and apologize, but right now, he had to do the best things for himself. He walked away from the stage

Behind him, something sparked and banged loudly as it failed, followed by Mr. Stark's voice.

"I said a few years, didn't I?"

* * *

If meeting Jack had done nothing else, it gave Becca enough courage to finally move out of the Goulds' apartment. Despite knowing that she couldn't afford to stay, she had been putting the move off because her room had become a home away from home. But since Thanos had definitely been defeated in the future, that meant Steve would be looking for her. She had to be smart about her living situation while he searched.

So Becca read through the classifieds and visited potential apartments. She settled on an apartment in another part of Brooklyn. Mrs. Legate – "call me Vera" – lived there with her two kids. Her husband had been enlisted in the army, and she needed the extra money. The Goulds had let her borrow their suitcases, and Mr. Gould insisted on coming along so that Becca wouldn't need to make two trips.

Becca no longer had her own room. There was a single bedroom with two beds, one which became hers and the other which Vera shared with her kids. However, Becca didn't mind the arraignment that much. At ages ten and eight, Patsy and Lyle were relatively well behaved at bedtime. If Becca ever needed a bit of peace and quiet after work, she said something to Vera and the bedroom would go undisturbed for an hour or so. The rest of her evenings were a bustle of activity as she assisted with dinner, helped the kids with their homework, or occasionally pitched in with the washing Vera took on as her main source of income.

Staying busy kept her mind off Steve for the most part. She did do a walk by of his apartment building once in case future Steve was lurking and planned on doing the same every so often. She thought about him when she saw an advertisement in the paper for the World of Tomorrow exhibition hosted by Stark Industries. When that day came and past, she knew Steve would be on his way to becoming Captain America. She was glad he would be there to help save the world, but it also saddened her to know that he had gone from her life until who knew when. And his life would never be normal again.

Three days afterwards, Becca was on the verge of dozing off before dinner when Vera knocked on the bedroom door and said, "Rebecca? There's a man at the door for you."

Becca got up, yawning. "Okay. I'm coming."

It had to be Howard. She'd left her new address at Stark Industries in case anything should come up. Maybe he wanted to know why she hadn't been at his science fair, but Becca was really hoping this meant he'd made progress on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge. She opened the bedroom door and froze.

Steve was standing just inside the front door. How the hell had he found her? The Goulds. Of course. He must have asked for her at their apartment and been directed here. God, he'd probably come to say goodbye. Which she didn't feel like doing in front of Vera and the kids.

"Let's go outside," Becca suggested, striding towards the front door and trying to think up a good excuse for why she hadn't come to see him. She took them up a flight of stairs to one of the landings, where she settled onto her knees and patted the floor beside her. Steve sat down. "So, hi."

"Hi," Steve returned.

He looked nervous. Afraid she wasn't going to take the news of him leaving well? Becca couldn't exactly say he was wrong. She would rather not have heard from him directly, though she was thankful he didn't seem super happy. Because seeing his enthusiasm would have made this conversation even harder. She might as well rip the band-aid off for him, and that gave her an idea for an excuse.

"Sorry, I didn't come see you as soon as I got back," she apologized. "I thought the army might have snapped you up while I was gone, and I didn't like the idea of knocking on the door to an empty apartment. So I was working up to it."

"Oh," Steve breathed, a sliver of relief apparent in a quick grin. "That's good. Well, it's not good exactly, but I thought maybe you didn't – It doesn't matter. I'm glad you're back. I missed you." He hunched forward, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. Obviously those words had slipped out.

Becca smiled slightly. It was difficult not to when Steve was being cute.

"How was being a nanny?" he asked.

"Okay," Becca lied, and kept it at that rather than trip over an elaborate fabrication. "How's it coming with the army? They let you in yet?"

"I've decided I'm not joining the army."

Becca tilted her head, lips parting in shock. She had heard right. There was no way she hadn't, but his words didn't make any sense. The science fair had passed a few days back, so he was supposed to be officially in the army.

"I'm sorry, _what?_ "

"I'm not joining the army." Steve straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin resolutely. "Overseas, I'll probably just get myself killed, but I can do good here. Like Lawrence – you remember him from the gallery? – he said a bunch of people are getting together to write letters to Washington about coloreds not having equal opportunities in jobs helping the war effort. And the AFC is gaining more support every day, so I thought that I could try –"

Panic was starting to coil around Becca's stomach. "Stop." She grabbed Steve's arm so hard that he winced and she had to loosen her grip. "Stop for a second. Why don't you want to join the army anymore?"

Like he was bracing himself against a potential blow, Steve took a deep breath, every line of his body going tense. "I know I'm lousy at this sort of thing, but I promise I'm trying my best." Having no idea what the fuck he was walking about, Becca simply kept staring at him until he went on. "All right. Here goes.

"I wanted to join the army to help people, but I also thought that if I joined, I could prove that I'm no different than anyone else just 'cause I'm… I'm…" Steve looked down at himself and put a hand against his thin chest. "Well, I'm like this. Short and – and, uh, well, you know, I've got a lot of health problems. See, 'cause most people, they treat different 'cause of all that. But if I joined the army, I figured that someone might finally notice that I'm worth a darn. And, and if I went out, at least my life would mean something."

Steve dropped his hand into his lap, his eyes flicking up and down between meeting her gaze and the floor. "But then I met you, and you – you noticed me, and you told me that I'm not useless, and you treated me with respect, and you made me feel – well, you make me feel like… like I am worth something. And I don't need to prove myself to people I've never met, as long as the people who matter to me believe that. People like you, 'cause you matter to me. Uh, a lot. And – and you're crying, and I'm saying something wrong, aren't I?"

Wiping at the tears streamed down her cheeks, Becca gasped, "I'm crying because you're a fucking drama queen!"

Why did everything have to be such a huge deal with him? This situation couldn't have been as simple as deciding that he might actually die in the army. Oh no. This had to be about self-worth and respect and deciding not to join the army because he didn't need a last ditch effort to go out in a blaze of glory. Steve had to make things complicated. Because how in the hell was she supposed to tell him that oh, yeah, thinking you're finally worth something is great, but actually you still need to join the army to find your true purpose?

She had tried not to divert his course, but she had changed Steve all the same. Becca pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She had made him feel good about himself. That should be amazing, but all it did was make her stuck. If he never became Captain America, what then? Were they entering some kind of parallel universe? Was she never getting home? She had to get home. She _had_ to get home.

"Rebecca?" Steve lightly touched her shoulder. "I'm sorry. Whatever I said, I'm sorry."

"You were supposed to join the army," she mumbled. Oh god, she might not be getting home. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck.

"But I told you, I don't need to anymore."

The tips of her fingers and toes tingled; her chest tightened. "But you're supposed to."

"I don't think I am. I – Are you all right?" He sounded unnerved, but Becca couldn't think straight enough to take his feelings into consideration at the moment.

She snapped, "No, I'm not fucking all right! I'm having a fucking panic attack!"

She was never getting home. She was never getting home. The thought spiraled around in her head, drawing gasping sobs with each pass. Becca wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. How could this happen?

"Try to take steady breathes," Steve offered, hovering close by her shoulder. His pale skin had gone a fainter white, and he looked about ready to start panicking himself.

Like she wasn't already trying to take steady breathes. Becca shot him a glare. "N-no, really? I thought – I thought I s-should just hold my breath."

"Well, this might be over faster if you do." If she hadn't been having a break down, Becca might have giggled. Or shoved him for being an ass. Steve grimaced apologetically. "Sorry. How can I help? Wait, you said this is like asthma right? Will doing that – that breathing thing you did for me help?"

When she nodded, Steve placed his right hand on her chest, a respectable inch above her breasts, and they breathed together. Ever so slowly, Becca calmed, holding Steve's bright blue gaze. Once he had an objective, he was as steady as a boulder, exuding an air of certainty that could be useful when she needed something to cling to.

And as she looked deeper, Becca saw the man he'd become if he stayed in Brooklyn. A champion for various causes, passionate, demanding change from the world around him, but finally certain of himself. He would be doing what he loved. He would be safe. He would be happy. She wanted that for him, wanted it so much. But she wanted to go home more. That was the hard truth, in the end. She wasn't selflessly trying to save the world. She wasn't bravely trying to do what Steve would believe was right. She was trying to get home.

As guilt flooded through her chest, Becca pulled Steve into a hug. She buried her face against his neck, squeezing her eyes shut tight against a fresh surge of tears. His arms wrapped around her without a single moment of hesitation. She really had changed him.

"I wish you could have a normal life," Becca whispered, her voice partially muffled against his shirt collar. "I'd like you to have a wife and kids and the white picket fence. You could be an artist and an activist, and never see a war more dangerous than a protest rally."

"That's what I want! That's exactly what I want." Steve shifted, not to pull away from her entirely, but enough that Becca was forced to look at him. "Will you go on a date with me?"

Becca felt absurdly like laughing. The first time he'd asked her out was on the day of an alien invasion. This time it was on the day that he'd altered the events of the universe. No one could accuse them of having a dull relationship.

"I can't, Steve. I'm sorry."

Steve's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because you have to join the army." She could contact Howard, explain the necessary details. He would listen to her. Becca wasn't going to give him a choice.

Looking resigned, Steve said, "You can say no. You don't have to make excuses."

"I'm not making excuses."

"Then, why are you saying I have to join the army? I thought you wouldn't want me to."

"It's…" Becca couldn't think of a single logical, convincing reason. "It's complicated, okay? But I promise that you being in the army is important."

He didn't believe her. Becca could read that much on his face. It made her angry enough to shake him, guilty enough to apologize a hundred times, desperate enough to drag him to Stark Industries. What she ended up doing was kissing him. She didn't even make a conscious decision. She was looking at him one moment and the next moment her lips were pressed against his. And nothing else mattered because kissing Steve felt so _right_. His shape of his mouth was familiar, comforting. She had kissed these lips for years, and she could kiss them until they were back in 2017.

For Steve's part, Becca could feel his shock in the slackness of his jaw. But then, he kissed her back. Wow, she'd forgotten how terrible of a kisser he used to be. She would have to teach him again. So Becca softened her desperate kisses to a sweet, gentle pressure and pretended that they were a normal couple with no responsibilities to anyone but themselves. With his hand settling on her waist, Steve returned her kisses eagerly. He wasn't improving by much, but she didn't really care. She loved him, and with each kiss, he was saying he loved her, too.

They might have stayed lip-locked on the landing for ten minutes or a whole hour if a man hadn't come up the stairs, clearing his throat when he saw them. Steve jerked away from her like she'd suddenly become poisonous, his cheeks turning a faint pink. Her lipstick had stained his mouth red, marking their supposed transgression. Becca barely contained a smile, bowing her head as the man passed by with a disapproving glare.

Once he had turned the corner, she kissed Steve one final time before reluctantly facing their reality.

"Believe me," Becca pleaded, tracing tips of her fingers along his jaw-line. "You have to join the army."

Some of the haziness in Steve's eyes disappeared, and he shook his head. "I'm staying right here. With you."

Naturally, she had only made this more difficult. Steve was stubborn. If his mind was made up, she would need a very good reason to change it. And Becca had just one. She took his hands in hers.

"I have something to tell you. It's going to sound like a joke or like I'm out of my mind, but it isn't and I'm not."

Steve frowned uncertainly, but he said, "All right. I'm listening."

Becca took a breath in through her nose and blew out her mouth. To have any chance of getting home, she had to say it.

"I'm from the future."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **All I'm going to say this week is hold onto your hats everyone. Things are going to get messy. See you soon!**

 **(Crystal H: Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter. Yeah, the decision of who gets the Infinity Stones for the Infinity Watch falls to Warlock, a character who I highly doubt is going to be in the MCU. So I can't imagine that Thanos will end up with a Stone in the movies. In fact, I'll be surprised if he survives the Infinity Wars at all, especially with all the buildup they're doing.**

 **N: Thank you! It's nice to hear that you found Jack's backstory a pleasant surprise because I had a lot of fun coming up with him.)**


	19. Interlude III

Thanos had been defeated. He had taken a lot of good people with him. Earth would likely never be the same as it was before. But at least they had won, and the people would come back twice as strong and eager to rebuild.

Steve wanted this regrowth, was eager to be at the center of it after all the destruction he had seen. But first he had something important to take care of. He wiped away blood dripping from a gash on his forehead into his eyes and searched across the ravaged streets.

There.

Slowly, Steve limped forward. A couple of his ribs were broken, at least. His mouth tasted salty, and he spat out a glob of blood onto the pavement along with part of a tooth. His left ankle throbbed from overuse, courtesy of an old wound. He didn't turn when footsteps approached. He knew who it was from how he walked heavier on his left side.

"After you do this, you're sitting down," Bucky stated.

"You're not looking too great yourself," Steve replied. But while Bucky seemed busted up, nothing appeared life-threatening. That had been one of the first things Steve had made sure of once Thanos was eliminated. "Hope there's still a couple of electronics stores open after all this or we'll have to find another use for that arm. I'm thinking back scratcher."

Bucky flexed his arm, which sent off the sharp smell of burning metal. "No, I'm going to use it as a stand for my magnet collection."

Steve's eyebrows rose. "You kept those?"

For a while when Bucky had lived with him, Becca had bought cheap, ridiculous magnets to put on Bucky's arms while he was sleeping. It had been the downright hilarious before Bucky caught on, as he would walk around with a magnet of a glittering yellow penguin with googly eyes or a heart with loopy cursive at odds with the message: "Badass Bitch." Steve never saw the same magnet twice, so he'd assumed Bucky threw them out.

"Well, yeah. Some of them are real winners. And Becca put a lot of thought into picking them out, and you both liked them, so…" Bucky shrugged. "I'm glad that stupid glove didn't blow or something, huh? So you can get her back."

"Me too," Steve agreed. When everything had settled, his fear had been that the Stones would be gone before he had a chance to get Becca from wherever Thanos had sent her.

The gauntlet grew closer with each step, gems glowing brightly. Steve didn't know how to work them, but he would find out if he had to beg for help from this end of the universe to the other side. She was his wife, and he was bringing her home.

Steve had almost reached the gauntlet when Gamora stepped in front of him. She had been beat up as much as the rest of them, but her head was held up in defiance, her gaze daring Steve to push her aside.

It seemed that the fight was not yet over.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Just a quick interlude. Sorry to leave y'all on a cliffhanger for another week. I know what's going to happen in the next chapter, but Steve and Becca seem to have other ideas. Thanks for your patience.**

 **(Guest: Thanks! Angst does making for good reading; I'll agree with you there. I'm afraid you'll have to be dying for the continuation until next Friday.**

 **N: Thank you! Yes, Steve's response. Well, you'll find out. Later rather than sooner, unfortunately.**

 **Crystal H: Thanks! Since I'm making you wait a whole week for answers, I suppose I can tell you this much: I will at some point write about Steve and Howard meeting for the first time. Hope it meets your expectations.)**


	20. From Half Truths To Half Understandings

Steve wondered if his hearing had gotten worse than he'd thought. It sounded as though Rebecca had said that she came from the future, which, apart from not making any sense, was plain impossible.

Although he felt dumb for having to make Rebecca repeat herself, Steve had to ask, "Could you say that again?"

Slowly, Rebecca said, "I'm from the future."

This time Steve was sure there wasn't a problem with his hearing. Still, her words made no sense. Unless she was trying to get rid of him. Although, she had chosen a truly outlandish reason. He had heard his share of excuses from women, but this was downright insulting.

"Sure," Steve grunted, sliding his hands free from hers.

"You don't believe me." Rebecca let out a strangled laugh as she slumped against the railing of the landing they were sitting on. "Of course not. I dropped that on you without explanation. I should have lead up to it. Like, duh, right? But I'm – okay, let me start again." She took a deep breath. "I'm not from Montana. I'm from New York."

Steve recalled how lost Rebecca had seemed on the day they'd met, and decided that she had to be talking about the state rather than this city. He was confused as to why Rebecca had been lying to him, and a little hurt, but he figured she must have a good reason. Maybe she wasn't trying to get rid of him after all.

"And 'the future' is a place in New York?" Steve guessed.

Rebecca shook her head. "I mean, _the future_. Like past, present, and future. I was sent here from… from after the war."

It sounded like a joke or the belief of a person who wasn't all there. Rebecca had promised him that what she had to say was neither, a comment which now made sense. Steve knew she wasn't pulling his leg. Her expression was much too serious. And he didn't think she was bonkers, but that didn't leave many options, bring him back to his original theory.

Deciding to go along for now, Steve questioned, "Are you saying that someone's invented a time machine?"

For a long moment Rebecca said nothing. Her bottom lip shifted, a flash of her teeth revealing that she was chewing on the inside. "How I got here isn't important. What's important is that you were supposed to go to a recruiting station at that science fair. You would have finally gotten into the army and become a war hero. Probably the most famous war hero in all of history."

Despite himself, Steve began to laugh. He would never be a war hero, much less famous. And what with Rebecca knowing he had gone to the science fair, there was only one conclusion he could make.

"What's so funny?" Rebecca asked with a frown.

"Nothing."

Steve understood now. He was dreaming. A dream certainly explained why she'd kissed him so many times. All her excuses, those were just his worries getting in the way. Just to be sure, he pinched the inside of his arm, hard.

It hurt.

Surprised, Steve let go, no longer so sure he was dreaming. He pondered how to test himself. The beginning of dream should be hazy at best, so he thought back and discovered that he remembered his whole day.

Waking up and eating breakfast. The several half finished sketches he'd done while caught up debating if he should go see whether Rebecca had come home. Taking the crowded bus to her old apartment. His disbelief when Mr. Gould had told him that she'd moved. His fear on the bus here that she didn't want to see him anymore. The flutters of his courage failing as he stood outside her door until he found the last shred of resolve it took to knock.

Every memory stood out crystal clear in his mind. Heck, Steve could even remember most of yesterday. If this was a dream, he shouldn't be able to recall so much of the day.

Rebecca stated, "You're not dreaming, if that's what you're thinking."

If she hadn't displayed the ability of seeming to read his mind before, Steve might have gone back to questioning whether or not he was dreaming.

"Maybe not," he admitted.

But then, either Rebecca had lost her mind or she was… telling the truth? Steve couldn't believe it, though. Time travel wasn't real. The possibility that she had some kind of mental problem loomed suddenly larger, like a shadow growing into full-bodied specter. Perhaps the hints had been there all along, and he had stupidly missed them: her panic attacks, the odd things she said sometimes, the bursts of intense emotion that quickly faded.

To begin with, Steve tried a realistic approach. "But just because I'm not dreaming, doesn't mean you're from the future."

Rebecca made a frustrated sound. "But – Ugh, I don't know how to prove it. I could tell you about something that'll happen to you, but you'd have to go join the army for that to work."

Steve shook his head to let her know what he thought about that idea. His mind was made up about the army.

"Well then – then what about this? I didn't find your apartment by… by…" Rebecca shrugged. "You know what? I don't even remember what excuse I gave you. I found you because I knew where to look."

His skin prickled with unease. But if Rebecca was delusional, she needed his help. "Why would you know a thing like that?"

For a few seconds, Steve thought he'd stumped her. Rebecca started to speak, but closed her mouth before even finishing a single word.

Finally, she lifted her chin and conceded, "Okay, so I didn't know _exactly_ where, but I knew _around_ where. You're famous. People know you live in Brooklyn. And, like I told you, I'm a New Yorker myself. It gave me an even better idea of where to start."

If she hadn't hesitated, Steve might have given her answer more consideration. "Rebecca –"

"Oh, don't 'Rebecca' me," she huffed, nose wrinkling in disgust. "Just – would you – How about I tell you something about yourself that you've never told me? Something that I wouldn't have heard from Bucky or any of his family."

"That would be quite the trick."

"Fine. Okay. Um…"

While she thought, Steve considered her. Rebecca looked all right physically. Her delusion didn't seem that dangerous. Apart from the panic attacks, of course, but those appeared manageable – like his asthma – as long as someone was around who knew how to help. Rebecca was getting by. She had held down a job for a while and found a more affordable apartment to live in. Although, she would continue to struggle unless she learned to handle her money better.

Steve worried that she might not learn fast enough, and that something had broken inside her. The fire and her husband's death could have done that. Seeing a shrink could help, but he was afraid they would throw her in the loony bin. He hated the thought of Rebecca locked away. Some people needed that kind of help, but not her. She could get by all right on her own. What she needed was someone to keep tabs and offer a less extreme kind of help.

No question, he would be that person. Rebecca trusted him, and Steve thought that made for a good start. And he would never treat her badly just because her brain wasn't right, like a lot of people who looked down on those who had some kind of disability. Plus, she was including him in her delusion, so if he kept gently reminding her that time travel wasn't possible and creating enough doubts, maybe she would stop believing. Or if he showed her the good things about this time and how he could be happy not being in the army and how much he cared about her, maybe she wouldn't need to believe in this imaginary future anymore. He could come by every day to talk to Rebecca if that's what was best for her.

"I've got it," Rebecca announced. "It's one of my favorite stories that you – that I read in a biography. So one time when you were a kid, your mom came down with the flu or something like that. And you felt bad because it was always really awful when you were sick, so you thought that's how it was for everyone else, and you wanted to do something to cheer her up. Now, your mom really loved Georgia O'Keeffe. So when she was sleeping, you borrowed one of her outfits and her lipstick and dressed up as Georgia O'Keeffe. You even did a drawing of a flower on old newspaper.

"When you mom woke up, she laughed more than you ever saw in your life. She absolutely loved it. She even kept the drawing, which you didn't even know about until you were cleaning out her things. And whenever you see an O'Keeffe painting, you smile because you think of your mom and remember that day."

Utter disbelief made Steve's mouth gape. He had never shared that story, ever. It was a special, fond memory of Ma he tucked away, meant for the two of them. He supposed Ma could have told Mrs. Barnes and Rebecca could have found out from her, but even if that were the case, how would she know about the drawing?

"There, you see?" said Rebecca, smiling triumphantly. "I'm telling the truth."

"But…"

If Mrs. Barnes _had_ told Rebecca that story, she could have guessed that his mother would keep the drawing. And he spoke well of Ma, so Rebecca had guessed the rest. Only the conclusion didn't feel exactly right to him. Steve rubbed a hand across his face, hoping he would wake up already because it would be a lot simpler if this was a dream.

Rebecca's fingers closed lightly around his wrist, and he looked up at her. Her smile had gone, replaced with sympathy. "I know it's a lot to take in, and I wish I could give you a few days to process, but this timeline's already gone sideways. We need to fix it before the future changes forever. I know someone who works with the person you were supposed to meet at the recruiting station. He can get you into the army."

"I don't… Uh…" mumbled Steve, buying himself time to think. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine as long as you join the army," Rebecca promised. "First thing tomorrow I'll head over to Stark Industries and leave a message for Howard."

Rebecca kept throwing surprise after surprise at him, and Steve found this one to be the least pleasant. "Your friend Howard is Howard Stark?"

"Yeah. He's been helping me try to figure out how to get back home."

Steve wasn't sure if this was another delusion or what, but it would be easy to find out. Should Howard agree to meet with them, then Steve would have no choice but to pay attention. Unless Howard was placating Rebecca just to get close to her. Steve gritted his teeth, imagining Howard's smug grin and how he'd pulled that assistant of his right up against him as they'd kissed.

"I'll talk to him," Steve agreed.

Rebecca gasped, "Really?" And Steve couldn't think about Howard kissing his assistant any longer because Rebecca was kissing him. If anything existed in the world softer than her lips, he had yet to discover it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." For the first time, seeing her look so happy didn't make Steve feel the same. But he'd do the best he could to ensure that Rebecca found happiness in reality, and not because of some story in her head.

"I should probably go," said Rebecca, and Steve stood up to help her to her feet. "I'll let you know when I've heard from Howard."

As they descended the stairs to her apartment, Steve asked, "Well, can I come see you tomorrow? It doesn't have to be more than a few minutes." He wanted to check in, see how she was feeling. See if she stuck with the future story and make sure this wasn't a strange dream.

"Ummm. Yeah, okay. I get home around six-forty usually. At least I can let you know if Howard was in or if I had to leave a message."

"Uh huh."

A faint, but familiar shadow of melancholy crossed Rebecca's face. "I know you don't believe me about being from the future. But you will." She leaned down and kissed him, long and slow, like she was trying to make the moment last. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Rebecca twisted the doorknob, but paused to say, "Oh, you might want to wipe off your lips. My lipstick's kinda everywhere. Wouldn't want to make all the ladies jealous on your ride home."

Steve shrugged. "I don't know. Mrs. Cahill's been crankier than usual lately. This ought to cheer her up."

The corner of Rebecca's mouth twitched into a grin before she entered her apartment. Steve continued on down the stairs, a mix of emotions turning his insides into mush. A tiny part of him was thrilled that Rebecca had kissed him. And while she had turned down his offer of a date, it wasn't necessarily because she didn't like him.

But, for now, Steve knew he would have to put his feelings aside. Somewhere inside her mind, Rebecca had a sickness. He needed to focus on helping her get better. Just because a person was sick didn't mean they had to be deprived of the possibility a happy ending. Rebecca had taught him that, and he owed it to her to make sure she got the happy ending she deserved. And if she wanted, he would be there to share it.

* * *

All things considered, Becca supposed her conversation with Steve could've gone worse. It would have been really bad if he'd got up and left. Yeah, she would've known where to find him, but once he got stubborn about something, that was pretty much it. There was a lot more she could've told him about himself as evidence of her being from the future, but she'd been afraid of revealing too much. Steve had already changed the course of events just because he liked her. If she threw out a bunch of his personal stories and other stuff about him, her lie about reading it all in a biography definitely would've been called into question. Steve was smart. He might guess they were friends, or more. Then, he'd probably put the army on hold while trying to help her find a way home.

All it took was another visit from Steve to figure out that he'd instead decided she was crazy. Of course, he didn't say that outright. Rather, Becca deduced as much from how gently insistent he sounded when trying to poke holes in her future "story" and from the look on his face, the one he wore whenever she got sick, concerned but determined, like he planned on fighting off the sickness himself.

Initially, Becca was a bit miffed. After all, she had believed him about being Captain America, which had definitely sounded as ridiculous as being from the future. But he had given her a lot of concrete evidence at the time, and in fairness to him, she should've rethought her attempt to explain how he'd become a war hero.

So Becca suffered his assurances that her beliefs were impossible. There was no serum that could cure all his illnesses, and it definitely wouldn't make him taller. Getting put in a green pod and coming out that way sounded like those science fiction books she read. If the army was going to give him a weapon, it wouldn't be a shield, although he kind of liked the idea. Hydra was a creative name; maybe she had been reading about the Nazis' interest in ancient Greece?

Fortunately, Mr. Bowen turned up at her apartment three days after she had left an urgent message for Howard saying they needed to meet ASAP. Howard greeted her eagerly in his office at Stark Industries, asking if she'd found a way to open up the Einstein-Rosen Bridge. He seemed very disappointed when she told him that her letter was about something else.

The explanation Becca gave was a combination of lies and truths. She told Howard that she had sought Steve out because of his reputation as a good man and personal curiosity about the first super solider. She admitted to befriending him, and that their friendship had altered the course of events enough that Steve hadn't gone to the recruiting station and met Dr. Erskine like he was supposed to. She stressed that Steve was extremely vital to the war effort and that whole cities could potentially be blown to bits if he didn't join Project: Rebirth.

Howard asked a bunch of questions – Becca had to redirect him when he got sulky about her not going to his science fair and tried to describe some of the inventions so that she might tell him how'd they do in the future – but ultimately agreed that he would contact Dr. Erskine. He seemed amused by the idea of presenting Steve as a candidate.

"The doctor's always going on about how goodness is the only thing that matters," Howard said, with a grin that said he thought that pronouncement was a load of bullshit. "From the way you describe him, seems like this Steve kid's got the biggest heart in New York, so he ought to be the best solider there ever was. About time too. Last I saw of Erskine, he was looking like he'd seen better days. The government's been putting on the heat about finding a subject before this darn war's over."

"Awesome. Great." Becca's biggest fear in meeting with Howard had been the possibility of finding out that Dr. Erskine had already chosen someone else. "But remember, please don't mention anything about the future."

Howard scoffed. "I'm smarter than that." He swept his arms outwards, directing Becca's attention to the building around her in case she'd forgotten what he'd accomplished. "Besides, if Erskine got interested in time travel and made a discovery or two, I might have to share the credit."

"Mmm." Unlikely since Dr. Erskine shouldn't be living past the day on which Steve got the serum. Becca would've liked to warn Howard or Steve so they could stop his murder, but if Dr. Erskine survived, so would the formula for the serum. Then, the future would be way, way different. Legions of men hopped up on super steroids couldn't lead anywhere good.

Before Becca left, Howard promised to send a letter once he'd tracked down Dr. Erskine.

Steve looked skeptical when Becca passed along Howard's plans. He looked less skeptical four days later when she showed him the letter saying they had a meeting on Thursday, and even less skeptical when Mr. Bowen came to drive them to Stark Industries.

"Don't start any arguments," Becca pleaded under her breath as Mr. Bowen walked them inside. This meeting had to go well. Steve wouldn't get another chance to join up, and even if his did, Project: Rebirth would not be part of the deal. "And try to look enthusiastic about joining the army. But also just be yourself."

Although Steve nodded, his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Becca couldn't be sure why, of course, but she would hazard a guess. He'd convinced himself that her claim of knowing Howard Stark was more crazy ravings. Yet, here they were, walking through Stark Industries. Steve had barely spoken on the ride over, a pensive silent lying thick between them until Becca couldn't stand it and engaged Mr. Bowen in small talk.

"Steve." Becca caught his hand to be sure she had his attention. "You have to trust me on this, okay? Joining the army is the right thing to do."

Steve regarded her, brow furrowed, gaze troubled. "I'll do the right thing."

Which didn't mean he'd do what she wanted, but Becca had no more time to convince him. She would have to trust him. Unless he made the wrong decision, in which case drastic action would be called for. Becca squeezed his hand and let go as Mr. Bowen knocked on the door to a meeting room.

Dr. Erskine looked like stereotype of a scientist. He had the big glasses and the unruly, thinning hair. Becca had seen pictures of him once or twice, but hadn't remembered him too well. His expression was kind. She felt even guiltier when Howard made introductions – calling her a "colleague" – and she shook Dr. Erskine's hand. Here was a man who didn't even have a year left to live, and he had no idea.

Who in their right mind would want to time travel? No one who really thought about it. Becca hated looking at someone and knowing their life would be cut short. She didn't want that kind of knowledge. She didn't want the responsibility of having to choose between saving him and changing the future. It sucked. For the rest of her life, she would have to live with the fact that she had let him die. No one should have to deal with that burden.

They all took seats around one end of a large table and glanced around, deciding who would start.

Becca would not have guessed Steve would be the first to say something, but he asked Dr. Erskine, "Where are you from?"

"Queens. 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany," replied Dr. Erskine. "This troubles you?"

"No."

"Where are you from, Mr. Rogers?" Erskine flipped open a file that had been lying on the table. "Is it New Haven? Or Paramus? Six exams in different cities."

Steve fidgeted nervously in his seat. "That might not be the right file."

Howard let out a breath that sounded like "ha," and Becca noticed right away how Steve tensed, jaw shifting as he ground his teeth.

"It's not the exams I'm interested in. It's the six tries," Erskine placated, allowing the cover of the file to fall shut. He folded his hands on top. "Do you want to kill Nazis?"

Frowning uncertainly, Steve asked, "Is this a test?"

"Yes."

Steve glanced from Erskine to Howard to Becca, who did her best to look encouraging. He had to say yes. Please, let him say yes.

"I don't want to kill anyone. I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."

Even better. Becca could have hugged him, pride surging in her chest. His answer was so very Steve. He never took pride in killing anyone, only did what needed to be done.

Dr. Erskine also seemed pleased with Steve's answer, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled. "What do you think, Howard?"

Howard shrugged. "You wanted 'a good man.' I think I delivered."

"Well, then…" Dr. Erskine fixed Steve with his kind smile. "There are already so many big men fighting this war. Maybe what we need now is a little guy. I can offer you a chance. Only a chance."

Everything was aligning perfectly. All Steve had to do was agree.

But he hesitated.

Each second rolled past like thick syrup, and Becca grew increasingly sure that Steve was going to refuse. Or that Dr. Erskine would read through his hesitance and retract the offer. Steve's gaze turned to her, full of conflict. He had begun to doubt that she was crazy, but he wasn't sure. She had to make him believe right now, or be stuck here forever.

"I'm sorry. Could you give us a minute?" she requested.

Fortunately, Dr. Erskine nodded in understanding. "Of course."

Both he and Howard got up to leave, but Becca said, "Not you, Howard. There's something I think Steve needs to hear from you." Howard shrugged and flopped back into his seat. "I'm so sorry, doctor. This will be quick, I promise."

Dr. Erskine shook his head. "I've needed to go out for a smoke, so take your time. This is a serious decision, and Mr. Rogers should consider his choice carefully." He glanced between Becca and Steve with a knowing expression and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Okay, this was it. Trump card time. If Steve didn't accept what Howard had to say, then she was in serious trouble. Becca wasn't loving her odds, however, as Steve didn't appear in the mood to listen. His arms were folded, his jaw tense. He looked… resolved, maybe? No, resigned. He must think she was about to come up with another "crazy" excuse. Only she had never gotten this hostile attitude from him before. If anything, Steve had been extra patient with her. Oh well. She had to try.

"So what's this about?" Howard questioned. "Because from the way you were talking, I thought Mr. Rogers here wanted nothing more than to join the army."

"Well, he –"

Steve briskly interrupted, "Mr. Rogers can speak for himself."

"Hush," chided Becca, touching his arm.

Steve didn't make any further remarks, but he kept his gaze level at Howard, obviously waiting for a reason to start an argument. The amount of trauma he would have to go through once he became a soldier was staggering, but at least it would mellow him out somewhat.

Satisfied he wasn't about to challenge Howard to a fistfight or something equally ridiculous, Becca continued, "Well, he would if he knew that I was telling the truth. But Steve doesn't believe I'm from the future. He thinks I'm nuts –"

"I didn't say that," Steve mumbled, sounding slightly less fired up. _Slightly_.

"– so you need to tell him that you believe me. And tell him about the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, and the dark matter, and the cold spot. Just tell him everything."

There was a lot to explain, and Howard didn't hold back. Becca interjected every so often, mostly to keep his talk on a "science for idiots" level. The rest of the time she spent anxiously watching for Steve reaction.

Skepticism faded to puzzlement. Steve uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on the table instead and leaning forward, listening intently. Each movement came as a small victory to Becca. By herself, she'd sounded crazy. But Howard was a scientist and genius, and with his explanation backing her up, Steve had to take her seriously.

When he finished, Steve was wearing this dumbfounded look, like Howard had placed an incredibly difficult math problem on the table and asked him to solve it.

"So what you're saying," Steve mused after a stretch of silence in which he'd stared hard down at the table and the invisible problem, "is that you really believe Rebecca's from the future, and there's enough scientific evidence to back that up?"

Howard gave an affirmative nod. "That's the short version. Also, she knew about my flying car project, which no one knew about. So when she said you were supposed to be the first of the super soldiers, I listened. And I figured she should know. Apparently she married one."

Becca winced. There were a few things she should have told Howard to keep under wraps. She buried her concern beneath a smile when Steve turned to her.

"Believe me now?" she asked.

"Uh…" Steve looked like he didn't know what to believe. She needed to give him a final push.

"If there was even the slightest chance that he could save people – and I am talking thousands of people – the Steve Rogers I know would take that chance."

Becca could see the exact moment when he made his decision. The taunt lines on his face smoothed as he relaxed, while the blue of his irises seemed to burn brighter. He inhaled deeply, thin chest puffing up. She couldn't breathe herself. The rest of her life hinged on his decision.

"All right. I'll do it."

Since they weren't on their own, Becca caught herself before kissing him on the mouth. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek instead. "Good choice."

"Hey, I believed you first, and I didn't get a kiss," Howard complained, actually looking a little annoyed. "What was all that about being happily married?"

Becca shrugged. "I am. And you're not my type."

"Too tall?"

Steve frowned, anger sparking, but Becca shook her head. "No, just not thick-headed enough."

Eventually, Dr. Erskine knocked on the door. He looked satisfied when Steve accepted the offer, and then it was Becca's turn to leave the room. Howard brought her to one of his labs to show off new inventions, scrutinizing her for any signs of a reaction. Becca was careful not to give anything away, although some of the inventions were really cool, which made looking disinterested a lot harder.

Once handshakes were exchanged, Howard tracked down Mr. Bowen to drive her and Steve home. However, on the way, Steve asked where she had appeared exactly, so Becca had Mr. Bowen take them to the alley. She sent him off since they could take the subway back to Brooklyn. Walking Steve to the cold spot might eventually work in her favor. Future Steve would now know where the bridge had opened. If he could find a way to reopen it, he could come and get her.

Steve stood in the spot she pointed to, holding a hand up in the air. "It doesn't feel any colder."

"No. It's not colder by much," Becca reminded him. "If I'd known you wanted to come here, I would've asked Howard to borrow his thermometer-invention-thingy."

"Hmm." Steve scuffed a food against the ground, examining the spot like he expected to see signs of the bridge. "Dr. Erskine talked to me about Project: Rebirth. He asked me not to tell you about it because it's a 'classified government project.'"

"Not so classified in my time."

"I guess not."

Becca did feel bad to have to drop all this on Steve. At least she had dealt with aliens, superheroes, and a ton of other unbelievable shit first. It made the concept of time travel easier to swallow. "It's a lot to wrap your head around, I know. I'm sure you have a million questions, but I'm not sure I can answer any of them. The timeline already changed once, and I'd like to avoid that happening again."

Steve tucked his hands in his jacket, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. "Can I ask one question?"

Asking couldn't hurt, she supposed. Becca nodded.

"You told Howard that you're happily married."

"Yeah."

"That you 'are' married, not that you 'were' married."

Well, fuck. Becca tried to thick up an excuse fast. "Um… um, well…"

"And it's not the only time you've said something like that. I thought it was because your husband died not too long ago, but that's not it, is it? Your husband's still alive."

Her brain was not working fast enough, so Becca went to her backup excuse. "It's complicated."

"No, it's not," Steve stated, unblinking as he stared her down. "Is your husband still alive or isn't he?"

Becca had hedged for too long to tell him anything but the truth. "He was last I saw him, yes. I'm sorry I lied to you, but I had to make up a cover story. And can you really blame me? When I tried telling you the truth, you thought I was crazy."

Never in her four plus years of knowing him had Steve given her the look he gave her then. Angry, betrayed, disgusted. Becca flinched back. "You kissed me."

And she'd thought he was mad about her lying! Becca swallowed hard. This she could fix. She had to because she hated they way he was looking at her.

"Oh god, Steve, it's not like that. I'm not cheating. I'm –

"Why because he's not born yet or something?"

"No! Because… because I…" Becca realized she couldn't tell him why, not without revealing that they were married. She had already jeopardized the future enough. "Argh, I can't explain it to you. I just can't."

Steve shook his head, no longer so full of anger. More disappointed, like she wasn't the person he'd thought she was. "Maybe it's a good thing I'm going."

It made Becca suddenly furious. How could he judge her? Really, this was rich coming from him. Yeah, he told the whole marriage as monogamous thing seriously, but he still loved Bucky, and she didn't go around giving him disappointed looks.

"You know what? Maybe it is. Good luck, Steve. You're definitely going to need it."

Becca turned on her heel and stalked towards the mouth of the alley. This was total bullshit. She wouldn't even _be_ here if it wasn't for him.

"I didn't choose to come here!" she shouted without turning around. "You remember that!"

Let him chew on that tidbit. Someday he'd be sorry.

All her anger had pretty much gone by the time Becca got back to her apartment. This wasn't how she wanted to leave things with Steve. She went over to his place, but he didn't answer when she knocked and none of the lights were on. After waiting around for what had to be at least an hour, she left.

Becca came back late the next evening with a freshly baked apple cake. Again, no one answered the door. She called his name a few times for good measure and waited around for longer. He couldn't have left already, could he? She would've thought he'd get a couple of days to get his affairs in order or whatever. Although, Howard had said that Dr. Erskine was eager to get on with Project: Rebirth.

Desperately hoping she hadn't missed her chance, Becca went over to the Barnes' apartment and knocked on their door. It seemed the only logical place for Steve to be.

Mrs. Barnes answered, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Hello, Rebecca."

"Hi, Mrs. Barnes. Sorry to bother you this late, but I was wondering if you'd seen Steve? I wanted to say goodbye."

"You mean he didn't tell you?" said Mrs. Barnes, looking even more surprised. "Dear, I'm sorry, but we helped him pack up his apartment this morning. He's already gone."

It felt like Becca couldn't breathe. Steve was gone, and she wasn't exactly sure where he'd be or when he'd be back. She remembered walking with him through this neighborhood in the future and him telling her that he had vacated his apartment before leaving for basic. Couldn't afford to pay for an empty apartment.

"Who is it?" called Becky.

"It's Rebecca."

Becky peered around her mother, already in her nightgown. She wore a frown that wasn't very friendly. Steve must have told her what had happened, or she had picked up something from him. He wasn't good at hiding his emotions.

"Steve went to basic. He said _you_ helped him get in," Becky accused.

Her being married was apparently not the offense Becca had committed. She couldn't blame Becky for being angry. Steve currently didn't look like someone who would survive a war.

"I did." Tears pricked at the corners of Becca's eyes. She nodded to Mrs. Barnes. "Thanks for letting me know he left."

"Would you like to come in?" Mrs. Barnes invited, but Becca shook her head.

"No, that's okay. Have a good night."

Becca hurried down the stairs, wiping at tears. She strode back down the street, following an urge, stupid as it was. She returned to Steve's apartment and sat in the same spot she had on their first day. So much had changed since then. Steve had changed. She had changed. The future had changed, slightly if not more. But the universe had done one thing the same, torn them apart without a proper chance to say goodbye. Only this time it was her fault. She had overreacted, and now Steve probably thought she was upset with him.

"This is unfair," Becca mumbled. Then, she shouted it, "This is so goddamn unfair!"

No one shouted back to her. Becca was well and truly on her own. And she hated it.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **One tiny detail I'd like to address in anticipation that some readers will pick up on it: yes, in The First Avenger, Erskine says that Steve has made five attempts in five different cities to get into the army (not including that attempt because I think it's safe to assume Steve has tried in NYC once before.) Here I said six attempts, which will add up if you felt like going back and checking my numbers. This is intentional, and I'll leave it up to you sharp readers to make your own assumptions about why.**

 **See you next week for an appearance from a certain, green, not-quite-human author and scientist.**

 **(Crystal H: Thank you! Here it is. Hope you enjoyed.**

 **Guest: Thanks! We can only cross our fingers and pray they survive the actual MCU Infinity Wars, too.)**


	21. Making Connections, However Fleeting

Becca visited Jack for the third time since discovering his true identity. On her previous visits, she had subtly attempted to gather more information about the Infinity Stones and Jack's time travel experiments. Although Jack proved incredibly capable of evading answers, she stuck to her agenda of wearing him down. As he'd informed her of his intentions to stay in New York for a while due to unsafe travel conditions, Becca knew she had plenty of opportunities left, and planned on being extremely persistent.

But this visit wasn't about getting information. Becca needed someone to talk to as she felt herself spiraling downwards into a depression. And the only person she _could_ talk to about her situation was Jack.

As they walked from his hotel to Bryant Park, Becca recounted everything that had happened since their last talk. Steve not going to the recruiting station. Telling him about the future. How he'd thought she was crazy. The meeting with Howard and Dr. Erskine. The final, bitter words exchanged between herself and Steve before he left.

At first, Becca stuck to the bare details. She didn't know Jack too well, and so avoided getting too personal. However, there was no judgment in his eyes while he listened, his expression fixed in sympathetic concern, and she found herself spilling out all her worries with unusual ease.

"I'm scared," Becca admitted as they stopped to rest on a stretch of wall in the shade. "What if something else happens? Steve almost didn't join the army. I managed to fix that in the nick of time, but I won't be around him anymore. He could make another choice that changes the future, and it's my fault. I should never have gone to him for help, and I definitely shouldn't have kept coming back. I just…"

"You're lost and in a completely different world from the one you knew," said Jack gently. "It is not so strange that you would want to take comfort in being with a person you love. I daresay most anyone would do the same in your place."

"Yeah, but still. What if he changes things so drastically that I get stuck here? Or disappear or something? Or what if Thanos wins?"

"This is a serious predicament," Jack acknowledged. "But you have shown that you're willing to take responsibility for your actions by attempting to return time to its true course, even at the cost of Dr. Erskine and the grave tortures that will befall your friend Bucky. You have taken a step in the right direction."

It certainly didn't feel like a right step. Whenever Becca thought about what was in store for Dr. Erskine or Bucky, or Steve for that matter, she just felt terrible. "I guess."

"It's true. And I would ask that you allow me to assist you in assuring that the future stay on course."

Becca turned to him, curious. "How?"

"You recall that my primary field of study is neuro-technology?" Jack asked, and she nodded. "An area of such technology that was at its height in my era is the ability to control and manipulate memory. I myself have performed a number of operations during which I have successfully altered brain tissue to erase memory, sometimes with technology of my own design. I could replicate this procedure with the correct resources and space in which to operate. I'm sure Howard Stark would be willing to assist."

Ice cold fingers crept up Becca's spine, and she shuddered. "You want to change Steve's memory?"

"More precisely, I would erase you from it."

Becca didn't doubt the existence of this sci-fi, _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ technology. She had seen such technology work first hand, though the futuristic version must be more effective. But the idea of messing with Steve's memory made her queasy because, not only had she seen what happened when memory was tampered with, but she had also seen the cost afterwards. How could she ask Steve to go through this procedure?

And more selfishly, Becca didn't want to be erased. She didn't want Steve to forget about her again, even if it was for the best. He might be angry at her now, might think she was a cheating liar, but he was all she had. It was sappy and pathetic, but true. Her cell phone was nothing but a hunk of plastic without its charge, and even her wedding ring was nothing but symbol of what they'd someday share.

"What, so there'll be these weird gaping holes in his memory?" Becca asked, putting off her choice. "Won't he notice?"

As the mind-wipe technology had been described to Becca, during the twenty-first century anyway, whole blocks of memory went missing, not certain people. And you didn't mind those memories missing, but rather, accepted what others said to shape your choices rather than relying on memory. What Jack was describing sounded different, and Becca could only picture Steve recalling bizarre one-sided conversations or rapid flashes, like bursts from a camera with every few frames taken out.

Jack shook his head. "You would be surprised at the elasticity of the mind. It simply… slides over the memories which have been altered." He drew one gloved hand through the air, curving easily over an imaginary bump. "If the subject concentrates, his or her mind will invent new memories. It is quite competent and amazing in that way. Our mind dissects situations constantly and attempts to make sense of them, or to repair what it perceives as damage. There will be no noticeable gaps."

Jack made the procedure sound so easy, and in the future it probably was – but Becca had to wonder at the origins of mind-altering technology. Because its use was horrifyingly familiar. "Who started this kind of neuro-technology exactly?"

"Ah, you are wondering if this is the same technology which Hydra created, are you not?" guessed Jack with a rueful smile. "Although I think you would agree more readily to its usage if I denied it was so, I will tell you the truth. Yes, Hydra was the first to use this technology, but you cannot despise an invention because of the ill intentions of its creator. Tools which can alter memory are neither inherently good nor evil. It is the men wielding such tools who may be good or evil. We would not be forcing Captain Rogers to become a darker shadow of himself. We are merely correcting events so that he will once again be the man he should have been."

Although the thought of using a variation of Hydra technology made Becca's skin crawl, Jack had a point. They wouldn't be taking all of Steve's memories and warping him into a lethal assassin. They were simply removing her from the equation, which as much as she hated, should ensure that Steve would make the same decisions as he had when she wasn't a part of his past.

"What about side effects?" Becca asked. "Headaches? Possible brain damage? Anything?"

Jack shrugged. "Captain Rogers will have a mild headache for a few days, but further side effects are rare."

"Okay, so what are the rare side effects?"

"Consider this," Jack suggested firmly. "Any operation has the potential to go badly, no matter how experienced the surgeon, how common the procedure, or how healthy the person who will be operated on. But we do not stop giving organ transplants, for example, simply because one unfortunate person has a lethal reaction. We cannot let ourselves get caught up in the slim possibility of failure when the rewards far outweigh them."

"But if _this_ operation fails, we might literally be kissing the future goodbye."

"That is a risk I am willing to take."

"Easy for you to say. Steve's not your husband." Becca gripped the edges of the wall and sighed. "You don't know what he's been through, not really. If I talked him into it and something went wrong… I couldn't live with myself."

Becca could deal with Dr. Erskine's death. She could deal with Bucky falling into the clutches of Hydra, although it was harder to stomach. But if Steve's brain got scrambled or the procedure didn't go right, adding to the mountain of guilt he'd build over the course of the war, or – worst case – he died, Becca didn't know what she'd do. But it wouldn't be good.

Jack rested a hand against her shoulder blade, his touch so light Becca barely felt it. "You love him, and this makes your decision difficult. I understand. Perhaps if I had a loved one here with me, I would have made different choices. But without one, my gaze is clear. Allowing me to erase yourself from Captain Rogers mind is the right choice, for yourself, for him, and for the safety of our future. And if there is one thing my mother imparted to me about Captain America, it is that he always tried to make the right choice."

Very true. Steve was always very concerned with making the right choice. Becca forced herself to put aside her misgivings and think strictly about what Steve would want. It didn't take long, not with the potential of the future of mankind being in the balance. He would let go of some fond memories to save everyone else. Besides, he wasn't too happy with her at this point anyways.

But there was another problem with erasing her from Steve's mind, which Becca had to bring up.

"What about the other people who know Steve that also know me? He's going to be spending a lot of time with Bucky overseas. And there's Bucky's family, too. Steve will be really weirded out if they all talk to him about someone he has no memory of."

Jack frowned ponderously. "It's a predicament, no doubt. I will have to give the situation some thought, but none of that will matter if Captain Rogers still has his memories of you."

"I'll talk to Steve," Becca decided. "I don't know how I'm going to find him but… I'll ask. He has to be on board."

"I would very much prefer it if he agreed as well. I think it would be easiest for everyone." Jack patted her back once, light as his touch. "You have made a wise decision. Captain Rogers would be proud, would he not?"

"I guess we'll find out."

* * *

"Lights out, ladies! And if I catch another one of you tryin' to sneak out, it's goin' to be two hundred pushups every hour starting at oh-one-hundred and ending when you're all cryin' for your mamas."

Steve put his copy of _Battle Studies: Ancient and Modern Battle_ away in the locker at the foot of his cot. He had brought a stack of books from home, old and dog eared. Some he had read a couple of times, like Tzu's _Art of War_. Others, including Colonel du Picq's _Battle Studies_ , he had picked up on his way out of town. According to Dr. Erskine, he wasn't going to have as much time in basic as most soldiers because the government had put a deadline on Project: Rebirth. Steve needed to be prepared as possible for going into the war, and he didn't want to disappoint Dr. Erskine, who had gone out on a limb to give him this chance. Although it was hard to do much preparing when he came to bed so tired that he could barely struggle through a couple of pages.

As the barracks went dark, Steve pulled his blanket up over his shoulders. A few of his fellow platoon members complained about the cold and the thin blankets, but he fell asleep no problem. Even if he hadn't been used to poor sleeping conditions, he went to bed too exhausted to even begin to think about complaining.

Steve said a quick prayer, including a plea that no one would test their platoon leader again. Last night, Donovan had crept out, egged on by some of the younger boys, and pulled the air raid siren. Needless to say, the ranking officers had been furious. His platoon had been given latrine duties for the remainder of the month and had to run five laps around the track in the frigid night air. Steve hadn't finished until daybreak, and collapsed once from an asthma attack to boot. He was still recovering, although his body seemed to be permanently sore these days.

But if Project: Rebirth worked like Dr. Erskine and Rebecca had explained, he would never have to deal with another asthma attack, and five laps would feel like nothing.

Steve rolled over onto his side, already on the verge of falling asleep.

It would be nice to be big and strong. No one could push him around, like his fellow platoon members did all day long. And he could help more people. Still, Steve was having a hard time imagining having his body change that drastically. It was a lot to wrap his head around, although Rebecca being from the future – well, that was something else even more bonkers.

Steve wasn't completely sure he believed that Rebecca came from the future, even though Mr. Stark had gone through a bunch of fancy science talk to corroborate her story. Time travel sounded too much like fiction. Curing his illnesses and making him bigger, at least that was sort of like medicine, a tangible concept.

The one part he did believe for certain was Rebecca still being married. She'd admitted as much. He had been shocked, indignant. As he saw it, marriage was a sacred vow made between two people before God. Rebecca had been apart from her husband for about five months and already she had broken that vow, which didn't sit right with Steve at all. He didn't imagine it would sit right with her husband either.

In attempting to envision her husband showing up, Steve realized just how little Rebecca had talked about him. He had gone through Project: Rebirth as well, so he'd be tall and strong, but Steve couldn't recall her mentioning any physical traits. She hadn't even mentioned his first name as far as he remembered.

It didn't matter. He wanted to sleep, not think about the husband of the woman he'd fallen for and how Rebecca had hurt both of them, even if her husband didn't know it yet.

Unfortunately, once he got to thinking about something, it was almost impossible to think about something else. Steve pondered what Rebecca even _had_ said about her husband.

Her husband had money. Or did he? Rebecca had never actually confirmed that theory, now that he thought about it. She had mentioned a large sum of money she'd had in the bank once, but she'd never said the money belonged to her husband. Steve had made the assumption himself. And she had told him that story about how neither one of her nor her husband used the correct utensils at a high class dinner party. Perhaps neither one of them had money to start off, but rather, they'd come into money.

What else then? Steve had almost fallen asleep when he remembered Rebecca looking fondly off into space while she described her husband baking a birthday cake every year for her. The story had stuck with Steve because he found the idea of a man baking very unusual. Unless, of course, her husband had been a baker, but that didn't seem to be the case. And it was her husband who had showed her how to make the apple cake that had tasted so close to Ma's.

" _Maybe we had the same recipe."_

It was impossible that they had the same recipe, of course, because Ma's cake was a family recipe from Ireland.

The mattress springs creaked as Steve rolled onto his other side. Something shifted in the back of his mind, an idea that hadn't quite come together. He felt like he was missing something important, but why would thinking about the apple cake make him feel like that? Nothing came to mind, so Steve let the notion go, allowing his thoughts to drift sleepily, aimlessly through his memories of Rebecca.

Her face suddenly flashed in his mind, dark circles under her eyes, but a smile on her lips, the odd one that looked teasing but Steve had never figured out why. _"If it's any consolation, my husband's much more famous than the Rockefellers."_

She had said that the first day they'd met. Steve had thought Rebecca was pulling his leg, but maybe she hadn't been. As a super solider, her husband could have done something to make a name for himself. Of course, it'd have to be quite a feat to make him more famous than the Rockefellers. Steve also recalled her telling him that _he_ would become a famous war hero after going through Project: Rebirth. It seemed she liked to surround herself with famous people. Maybe that's why she had come to him, because, if her future story were the truth, she could get to know someone else famous. Her interest could've had nothing to do with selling her rings.

The sensation of missing something increased, like tingles running down the back of his skull. Slowly, Steve was feeling more and more awake.

Something about her rings was important. Rebecca had sold her engagement ring, which had a diamond on it; that much Steve could remember. Then, there was the wedding band she still wore with an engraving on the inside.

 _S.G.R. & R.M.S. _

Her husband's initials and Rebecca's. And coincidently also his initials. His initials.

Steve opened his eyes, mind racing. He was sure it was a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence.

A recent memory floated up; Rebecca in the alley, her wide eyes begging him to understand.

" _It's not like that. I'm not cheating."_

Memory after memory presented itself, projected from his brain like films on a reel. Rebecca retelling the story about when Ma had gotten sick with the flu. Rebecca bringing him a cup a coffee, just how he liked it. Rebecca coming to the art gallery, exclaiming over Lawrence's sketches like she knew him. Rebecca wearing one of her intent looks while giving advice that always sounded heavy. Rebecca assuring him time after time that he would get into the army when no one else believed in him. Rebecca –face tear streaked because she needed to sell the rings she had touched so gently – putting her hand on top of his after he'd tried to cheer her up.

" _You know, somehow I think my husband would agree with you."_

All of his breath left him at once. Steve couldn't believe in all the time he'd been at basic, he hadn't put these pieces together, even after Mrs. Barnes had written in a letter about Rebecca coming to find him, and seeming very upset to hear he'd left. Every one Rebecca's quirks, the strange things she'd said, the odd looks she gave him, it all made sense if he accepted one possibility. One incredible, nearly unbelievable possibility.

Steve stared at the formless shadows which grew clearer as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He barely heard the snores, coughs, and creaks in the room around him over the sound of blood pumping in his ears.

"Rebecca Read," Steve whispered, so quietly he almost couldn't hear himself. But he had to listen to how the name sounded, if it sounded absurd, the product of an over-tired mind. "Rebecca… Rogers."

It didn't sound absurd to Steve at all. Instead, the name conjured up those not infrequent daydreams he'd had after the jazz club in which Rebecca smiled at him, a kid resting on her hip with his blue eyes and her freckles.

For months, Steve had wanted nothing more than to be in basic training. Now, he could hardly wait for it, and the experiment, to be over. Because in that moment, he didn't care about being a good soldier or super soldier. If his suspicions were true, he needed to know. Only one person had the answer, and he'd left her back in New York.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So now Steve knows... but for how long? Drama ahead, readers. See you next week!**

 **(Crystal H: Thanks! Jack is indeed back. And now you know where it's going.**

 **N: Thank you! This is definitely the thick of things, that's for sure.)**


	22. Til Life Do Us Part

**IMPORTANT NOTICE: I've bumped up the rating of this story up to M. This chapter contains a sex scene. If that is not of interest you to, feel free to skip from, well, you'll be able to tell when and pick it up again in the last couple paragraphs.**

Steve didn't feel like himself for a number of reasons. His body, for starters. He had dreamed of being bigger for as long as he could remember, but so far it had proved to be nothing but a nuisance as he constantly bumped into just about everything. He'd smacked his head on the overhead hand bar when offering an elderly man his seat on the bus, and his head was still throbbing. His sight and hearing had also been fixed, which he was sure would be swell eventually, but right now the sounds of New York were too loud and the colors too bright, too bizarre. Even something as simple as walking down the street was like walking through a surrealist version of the city he knew.

There was the way women looked at him, and the fact that they looked at him in the first place. Steve wasn't used to being noticed, and he certainly wasn't used to being smiled at. He didn't know what to do. Did smile back? Did he say something? The first time Steve noticed was on his walk to the subway. He had ended up staring until the woman's smile became discomforted, at which point he realized he'd been staring and moved further down the platform out of shame.

And he had watched Dr. Erskine die. Steve had only seen one person die before, his mother. The experience had been terrible, but he had known in the last week what was coming. There hadn't been time to prepare for the doctor's death. He had been the one supportive voice during Steve's time at basic, and gave him a chance no one else had offered. Steve still couldn't believe he was gone, and for what? The serum? That seemed to be the case, and so he felt somewhat responsible.

At the very least, Steve owed it to Erskine to make his death worth something. And he had the last words of the assassin: _hail Hydra_. He had heard the name Hydra before, from Rebecca. After spending nearly a week under the watch of army doctors and scientists, he had demanded the brief leave time allotted between basic and service, and was going to find her. Not only because of Hydra, but also because she was the one person he thought could make sense of this odd, new world he had become a part of. And because after much contemplation and seeing a number of her predictions come true, he had an important question to ask her.

Steve took the steps up to her apartment two at a time, simply because he could, and knocked. He had made note of a diner around the corner where they could go to talk so as not to intrude upon the family Rebecca was living with. While it wasn't overly late, the children would likely be in bed already.

"I'll be right there," called Rebecca's voice through the door, and Steve heard her footsteps hurrying away and then back.

When the door swung open, Steve looked down at her. The angle was different than he'd grown used to, the effect more disconcerting than it had been with the people he knew from basic. And he could see her clear as crystal now, no blurred edges. Her dark blonde hair didn't have the faint green tinge that had been a result of his colorblindness. The brown of her irises appeared brighter. Her lips were a pale pink he'd never seen, but then, he'd never seen her without lipstick. She had a blue robe thrown over a nightgown, hastily knotted at her waist, and already slipping free.

Steve would have apologized for coming late in the evening, if he hadn't been so worried about Rebecca's cheeks turning pale. Her grip on the doorframe tightened, like she needed to hold herself up, rather than resting casually against the wood.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "I know it's a different look, but it's not all that bad."

Rebecca's eyebrows twitched, creasing together in a moment of uncertainty, and her eyes flicked downward toward his left hand. Disappointment flooded through her gaze. "I'm fine."

The question Steve wanted to ask pressed insistently at his lips, but he swallowed it down. "Were you turning in for the night? I can come back tomorrow."

He had two days while the army and government officials talked over this assignment he had agreed to, promoting war bonds. He would have preferred going overseas straight away, but until he got this body figured out, he doubted he could be much help on the warfront. And Rebecca had warned him not to let the notion of being a "great war hero" go to his head because his stint as a figurehead for war bonds was a "very important first step."

Rebecca held the door wider. "No, no come in. The Legates are away for the weekend." The kitchen seemed smaller than his apartment had been, but Steve didn't think the space was truly more cramped. Another aspect of becoming suddenly taller was that his new sense of proportions made him feel like he was constantly moving through a fun house. "Some rich aunt took them sightseeing in the Adirondacks, I guess. I think that money would be more helpful here, but… Can I get you a drink or something?"

"No, thank you," said Steve as he hung his jacket on a stand by the door.

Rebecca fiddled with the belt of her robe for a few seconds before taking a seat at the kitchen table. Steve took that as a cue to sit as well. Thick silence spread between them as she avoided looking at him while Steve looked at her. He didn't like this silence. They had always found something to talk about, and he'd certainly never felt uncomfortable around her, but that very emotion rose of Rebecca like rippling waves of heat.

"Dr. Erskine's dead," was the first thing to come out of his dumb mouth. Steve didn't even know why he blurted it out, except maybe that she hadn't mentioned his dying despite her relatively accurate description of the room in which he'd gotten injected with serum and how he would find out "pretty quickly" just how fast he could run.

Rebecca's shoulders curved protectively. "I know. I wanted to tell you, but… something bad might've happened. I'm sorry. Believe me, I really wish things could've turned out differently."

Anger bubbled up. She could have saved Dr. Erskine. If Steve had known, he would have found a way to prevent his murder. But it was too late now, and he could see the heaviness of Rebecca's guilt. She had made a choice, which she had to live with. He hadn't come here to berate her. He wanted to avoid parting ways as they had before he left for basic, with spiteful words and the sting of betrayal.

"The man who murdered him, he mentioned Hydra," Steve informed her. Rebecca continued her study of the table, avoiding his gaze. "You said Hydra is some kind of Nazi faction?"

Rebecca rocked a hand back and forth, indicating his being partially right. "In a way, but that's all I'm saying. You'll find out way more about Hydra than you ever wanted to know by the end."

"You could tell me now and save me the trouble," Steve suggested, but Rebecca shook her head. "Why not? If we take them down now, we might end the war sooner."

"Or we might destroy the world," Rebecca countered. "Dismantle one part, and you'll make martyrs. Cut off one head, two more will take its place. I'm not willing to risk that, are you?"

From the sharpness in her tone, Steve didn't think she was exaggerating. Rebecca knew more than he did. He would have to trust her, even if he would like to take Hydra apart as soon as he could. "No, I guess not."

Rebecca nodded, as if she'd anticipated his answer. "I have a favor to ask. I've been worrying about how you almost didn't join the army, and how that could've been a catastrophe. Even though you're on the right track again, who's to say that you won't make another choice that'll alter history? I'm not saying it'd be your fault, but… it could get ugly if you did."

"Guess I'll just have to think more carefully. Shouldn't be hard. I've never been the kind to make reckless decisions."

The joke didn't get so much as the hint of a smile from Rebecca. "I've got a better solution. I found someone else from the future, a future way beyond when I'm from. He's a scientist, and he'd like to help."

"How?"

"By erasing the source of the problem." Rebecca touched a hand to her chest, throat clenching as she swallowed. "Me. He can make it so that you don't remember me at all. Then you should be back on track."

Steve almost couldn't believe that Rebecca would ask such a thing. She was trying to think of the future and put other people first, and so he couldn't fault her for asking. But every inch of his being rebelled against her proposal.

"No."

Steve accepted that Rebecca really did know someone who could wipe her from his mind. After the changes that had come with the super soldier serum, such a concept didn't seem that impossible to him. However, he didn't want anyone messing around with his memory. That part of him was purely private, purely his. And if anything went wrong, well, his body couldn't have got much worse, but he didn't need anything messing with his head.

Unwavering, despite his firm rejection, Rebecca said, "Can't you at least consider –?"

"I said no. I won't do it."

For a split second, Rebecca's eyes flicked toward him, pain lancing through her gaze, before she looked away again. Her hand trembled against her breast. "Please, Steve. It's – it's for the best if you forget me. You have to think about the larger picture here."

For a split second, Steve did reconsider. Rebecca had changed him, undeniably. It was possible he would make another choice differently because of her. He couldn't say if the consequences would be dire, but he supposed that chance existed. But it was a chance, only a chance.

And Steve couldn't abandon Rebecca. That's what he would be doing if he forgot about her. True, he would be leaving her in New York while travelling, but he could write or ask Mrs. Barnes to keep an eye on her if need be. Because Rebecca did need help, not because she was bonkers, but because she was lost here, a woman out of her time. And he had a responsibility to take care of her, as a friend. And possibly as something more.

"What's your husband's name?"

Rebecca flinched, gasping in a breath. She quickly schooled her expression, but not before Steve had a chance to see her alarm at the question. "I don't want to talk about my husband."

"It's just a name." Steve teetered on the verge of certainty now, but he needed Rebecca to confirm his suspicions. He needed to hear her say it. "Tell me, and I'll think about what you said."

"You're lying."

Instead of responding, Steve waited. Rebecca glanced at him, chewing her lip, thinking. And taking far too long to say a name that should have come out easily.

"Fine," Rebecca said at last. "It's John. There. Are you happy?"

Steve shook his head. He gestured to her wedding band, which glinted on her clenched fist. "S.G.R. Those are the initials on your ring. They're your husband's initials, and they're _my_ initials."

"Stop it," Rebecca whispered, but Steve couldn't stop. He had to know.

"Your name's not Read, is it?"

" _Stop it_."

"It's Rogers. And you're my wife."

Rebecca leapt up from the table, her chair shrieking against the wooden floor. She walked away several steps, her back to him, the tips of her fingers visible as she hugged her chest. And she shook. Steve felt guilty for making her upset. He stood, but remained where he was, unsure of what to do. He wanted to hold her and apologize. She hadn't even looked at him though, and so he feared getting close would only upset her more.

"When I imagined talking to you about altering your memory, I planned for every argument," said Rebecca, her voice wavering with emotion. "I really thought I was ready. But in all those hours I spent planning, I pictured you like you were before. Smaller. I don't know why. It's stupid now that I think about it. But maybe I was imagining you that way because it made things easier. Because you didn't look like my Steve."

All this time, he hadn't known. Although Steve had finally put the pieces together on his own, hearing Rebecca confirm it made the revelation staggering. There was no way he could have realized the truth, but he felt as though he should have, somehow. She had known him so well, too well for the months they had spent together, but she had fit so easily into his life that he had never thought to question his luck in their friendship. But he knew now.

In three strides, Steve had crossed the kitchen, no longer able to stand back. Touching Rebecca, comforting her was a need too overpowering to ignore. Lightly, he rested a hand on her shoulder. Rebecca jerked forward, but slowly she relaxed into his touch, like a cat yearning to be stroked. She turned to him, eyes wet.

"Why do you always have to make things so difficult?" Rebecca asked.

Steve shrugged a shoulder. "Cause I'm a no good, trouble making artist, remember?"

"Tch. Don't I know it." Rebecca gave him a wobbly smile. "If it wasn't for this hot body of yours, I wouldn't have agreed to put up with your shit for the rest of my life."

"So that's why you wanted me to get the serum. And here I thought it was about saving the world."

"Eh. First the muscles, then the rest of the world. Although, I have to say, skinny you was pretty damn cute. And at least all your snarky remarks could be chalked up to compensating for something." Rebecca poked his chest. "Now you're just a jerk."

"Well, you chose to marry this jerk."

"Because I'm a saint, obviously."

"Obviously."

With the easy affection in her teasing, it wasn't difficult for Steve to imagine them having similar conversations a hundred times over. This felt right, the kind of playful ribbing that could happen in their own kitchen – in their own house? – at night before going to bed. Which made sense. He wouldn't have married just anyone.

Steve pressed a kiss against her temple, remembering how it had felt when she had done the same: intimate and wonderfully tender. Breath hissed in through Rebecca's teeth, but she didn't start as she had when he touched her shoulder. Instead, she tipped her head back, their noses brushing, lips an inch apart. He read the love in her eyes, an expression indecipherable until now because it was at once paradoxically soft and fierce. He could have laughed over all those fearful moments he'd wasted worrying that Rebecca felt nothing beyond friendship for him. She hadn't even hidden her emotions well. He had just been too inept at deciphering her mannerisms to notice. But they were together now, and he wasn't afraid anymore.

"This doesn't change anything," Rebecca murmured. "We'll have our time, in the future. You're only forgetting me for now. Please reconsider."

But if there had been even the tiniest shred of doubt lurking, Steve knew it was gone. He wrapped his arms around Rebecca's waist. She put her hands against his chest, but didn't push him away. She fit perfectly there, not quite so snug as when his arms had been thinner. And more importantly, his hold felt strong, as though he could protect her now like he hadn't been able to before. His new body was no longer awkward and strange, but useful, and he belonged in it.

"I'll go on this promotional tour. I'll fight this war and Hydra. I'll do what it takes to make sure we win," Steve granted. "But I'm coming back for you."

* * *

If only-s. So many of them. If only she had stayed away from Steve. If only she had been more careful in her cover story. If only Steve hadn't fallen for her. If only he hadn't figured out that they would be married one day. If only he had still been the small, skinny version. If only she had held it together better and laid out her carefully constructed reasons why Steve should let Jack wipe away his memories of her.

But if only-s weren't going to help, and Becca had been in a relationship with Steve long enough to know there was no way she was winning this argument. She could get him to listen, that much he would do for her, but he wouldn't change his mind.

So what could she do? Telling him the entire truth would do nothing but increase the odds of Steve making different choices. Picking out parts of the truth hadn't served her well so far, and she wouldn't know which parts would help and which ones would hinder her cause. Option two, she could leave things be. Assuming that nothing else changed, Steve would end up on the Hydra plane, and no matter what he said about coming back for her, a bunch of American cities would be blown up if he didn't crash. When he woke up in the future and met her, he would figure out what happened. And he'd know about the Einstein-Rosen bridge and where it came out. That could help him find her after Thanos had used the Infinity Stone to create the bridge.

Not pushing the issue would definitely be the easiest option. It wasn't like Becca _wanted_ Steve to forget her. She didn't want to see Steve looking at her like she was stranger, not ever again. She very much preferred seeing him looking down at her like he was now, completely focused – he never did anything half way – like nothing could be more important than her, his arms around her, their weight familiar and comforting. When he had kissed her temple, it took all of her resolve to stay where she was instead of throwing her arms around him and burying her face against his chest.

And yet, if Steve made another wrong choice, bad things could happen. Becca hadn't been making that up. She didn't know what would happen to her. She could fade away like in _Back to the Future_. Or be stuck here, possibly without Steve if he went and got himself killed. Or the entire world could be destroyed, and then it was goodbye to everyone and everything.

Which meant that Becca once again came to a decision that made her feel like cursing the universe and shedding some tears. If Steve wouldn't agree to have her removed from his memory, she would have to trick him into getting the procedure done anyway. She didn't know how. She didn't even know if Jack would agree to alter Steve's memory against his will, although Jack did seem very concerned with keeping the future on course. But she had to try.

So when Becca rocked up onto her toes and pressed her lips against Steve's, the kiss was an apology. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again and again, each time thinking, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Her tongue delved his mouth, stroking, caressing until his groans vibrated against her lips. The heat of betrayal burned into lust. She wanted the familiar comfort of his hands on her bare skin and the rhythm of their bodies rocking together. She wanted to blot out all thoughts of their future and their past with desire, as if their decisions had no meaning beyond this moment.

As she clung to him, Steve hold tightened, like they could be joined through their clothing with enough pressure, until Becca gasped out, "Too tight."

Steve let go at once and stumbled back a step. His face had grown flushed, his breath ragged, but his apologetic look was all innocence, like a puppy who had been scolded for accidently biting in its enthusiasm. "Sorry. I'm still getting used to my strength. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Becca assured him. "But how about we take this new body of yours into the bedroom for some practice getting that strength under control?"

Steve blinked at her. "Uh, well, I'd, uh, that'd be –"

Oh boy, they were back to the old days when any dirty talk either turned Steve either mute or sent him into a stammering panic. But she would take virgin Steve, no problem. So the sex wasn't going to turn her into a quivering heap, but after months without him, Becca really didn't care one way or the other. He didn't have to say a word. He just had to follow her, and she was going to blow his mind, among other things.

"That sounds like a yes." Becca gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Shoes off. Bedroom. Two minutes."

In the bathroom, Becca peered at her legs. She'd really like to shave them, but it would take a while. The razors nowadays weren't quite as gentle and the lighting in the bathroom was crap. She'd already cut herself a few times. Whatever. Steve wasn't going to be focusing on a bit of stubble. From what she'd read in the newspaper, shaving had only become a recent trend anyway. Her nightgown was coming off, though, because it didn't make her feel sexy in the least. She pulled off the offending garment and tossed it carelessly on top of the shower curtain before pulling her robe back on. It would likely be coming off in short order, but she figured having at least one layer on would show Steve that she wasn't trying to rush him to the finish line. Not that he'd remember any of this.

Becca quickly left the bathroom. Steve was waiting for her, standing indecisively near her bed. His shoes had been put aside next to the doorframe, his socks rolled neatly inside. When he looked at her, she could pick out the glint of desire, but he also looked much too serious.

"You're overthinking," Becca chided gently, sauntering over to him. "Sex isn't a battle you can strategize your way through. Just trust yourself." She took his hands and placed them on her waist. "And more importantly, trust me."

Steve blurted, "I have a prophylactic." His fingers twitched, an instinct to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment when Becca raised an eyebrow. "That's what I was thinking about. Not – not strategy. Mostly. Uh, I, uh – we don't have to use it, but… I know we're married and all, or we will be, but I'd like to be there when…" His gaze flicked down to her belly. "Well, I don't want you to be alone for that."

Stupidly, it hadn't even occurred to Becca that Steve _wouldn't_ have a condom. But actually it was strange that he did considering he hadn't even gotten past first base with a woman before. But hey, she was glad he did have one on hand. Now would so not be the time to get pregnant. Even though it also made her slightly sad to hear that he assumed they'd have kids together someday.

But Becca buried the sadness down and grinned. "You're sweet. But I'd like to know who –" She gripped Steve's shirt and tugged him towards her bed – "has been corrupting my good Catholic boy?"

"Using a prophylactic's not corrupting. It's using our God-given free will to make a choice," Steve argued. His self-assured demeanor slipped as he continued, "And Bucky gave it to me. He said every man should have one. You know, just in case."

"Well, thank god for Bucky." Becca pushed Steve lightly downwards, and he sank onto the bed. She would have to thank Bucky when she got home. He'd get a kick out of knowing he had helped Steve get laid for the first time.

"Do we have kids yet?" Steve asked as Becca straddled his waist. She nearly rolled her eyes. Talk about a mood killer.

"No." Becca shoved Steve hard. His back hit the mattress with a thump, but instead of looking surprised, lust widened the dark black of his pupils. She set her palms firmly against his shoulders, as if she was pinning him to the bed, and looked down with satisfaction as he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "Now hush. I plan on thoroughly corrupting you myself before the night's over, so we'd best get started."

From how eagerly Steve returned her kiss, Becca suspected he didn't mind their conversation getting cut short in the least. She spent the first few minutes on kissing alone, letting him explore the slick glide of their tongues and the delicate pressure of teeth against the tender flesh of their lips, while she pulled the loose tie from his neck and pushed his suspenders down over his shoulders.

Slowly, Becca made her way across the hard planes of his jaw to the slope of his neck, leaving glistening, pink splotches where she sucked on his skin. She would never leave a real bruise – Steve got bruises enough without her help – but she imagined each mark was like a memory, which would fade with time but still contained the echo of a feeling that could never truly be forgotten, and there was a little comfort in that. She teased the area around his pulse point, Steve baring his throat to her and making sounds that let her know he was enjoying the attention. When she licked hard against the sensitive spot, he groaned, his grip tightening on her waist.

Becca nudged one of his hands upwards, encouraging Steve to explore. At first, he did no more than run his hands up and down her sides, but gradually, he stroked her belly, curved behind to caress her thighs, brushed the back of his hand against the swell of her breasts. However, whenever he reached the gaping opening in her robe, his touch became maddeningly hesitant, ghosting over the strip of bare skin until she had to take drastic action.

Abandoning the removal of his shirt, which was untucked and mostly unbuttoned, Becca sat up. Steve moved to sit up too, but she put a hand in the center of his chest like an order, so he stayed where he was. Once she was sure the only movement was the rapid rise and fall of his chest, she undid the belt of her robe and let it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor.

There were a couple of moments over the years when Becca had picked up a new, sexy outfit or thought of a particularly creative way to greet Steve when he came home from a long trip at which point he'd get this certain look on his face. It was difficult to describe exactly. Surprise, adoration, hunger, lust, love, all rolled up into one. And it was more than just the look. His body seemed to react on some primal level, shifting towards her, perhaps only minutely.

This was one of those moments, the blue in Steve's eyes turning electric as he shifted up against her, the feeling of his erection pressing between her legs causing Becca to gasp. But she made herself hold still as his gaze raked over her nearly naked body, devouring each detail like he was storing them up for a later sketch or to keep him warm at night while on tour. And then, hallelujah, his hands moved. They were softer than she was used to, a result of the serum and sudden growth, gliding effortlessly against her bare skin.

His knuckles grazed the underside of one breast, and Steve paused, looking up into her eyes, asking for permission. Ridiculous. As if she would tell him he could look but not touch. Before Becca could make an impatient comment, however, he cupped her breast fully in his hand. She leaned into his palm, and that was all the encouragement he seemed to need. His initial caresses and squeezes weren't doing much for her, but when he closed a nipple between his thumb and forefinger in a light pinch, an answering ache tightened inside her.

"Do that again," Becca murmured, and sighed in approval when he did.

As Steve toyed with her breasts, Becca rocked her hips against his. She leaned forward, each thrust rubbing his erection against where she needed him. God, it felt so good. Steve began to mirror her rhythm in small, unconscious jerks. His hands trembled. She rocked faster, need driving her to an orgasm until –

"Stop," Steve groaned. "Rebecca, stop. Please."

Becca didn't want to stop, but she forced herself into stillness. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I uh…" His already flushed face turned a darker shade of pink. "I don't think I'm gonna make it if you keep doing that."

Naturally, virgin Steve wasn't going to last as long. Becca had to keep reminding herself that this wasn't the same Steve she'd slept with for over four years. "No problem. We'll slow this down."

Becca hoisted herself off of Steve's lap and sank back against the bed. After undoing the last few buttons and taking off his shirt, Steve crawled over her. She tugged at the bottom of his undershirt, so he rid himself of that, too. She traced the familiar muscles of his chest, no cuts, scrapes, or raised scars to break up the smooth skin.

Steve took a turn discovering the sensitive points on her neck. His mouth moved downward, pressing chaste kisses against her breasts. And not so chastely suckling at them, the wet tugging of his lips making it increasingly difficult for Becca not to grind against his waist in an effort to relieve the insistent demand of her body for release.

When he continued moving downwards, Becca quickly lifted her hips so that Steve would take the hint and remove her underwear. "Oh, shut up and take them off," she murmured fondly when he smiled.

Obligingly, Steve replied, "Yes, ma'am," but he did kiss the inside of her thigh before following through. He took the opportunity to rid himself of his belt and remaining clothing. Becca propped herself up on her elbows and barely managed to bite back a laugh when Steve noticed her watching and got all shy and flustered, shifting uncomfortable as he dug through his wallet.

"I'm your wife, remember? I've seen it all before," Becca teased, sitting up. "Many, many times." She kissed behind his ear. "And I've never been disappointed." She plucked the condom from his hand – which was weirdly in a paper packet instead of foil or plastic – and suggested, "So how about you lay back, and I'll do this?" She wasn't sure about the quality of old-time condoms, but at least if she put it on, she'd know it was on right.

Once Steve laid down, Becca rolled on the condom and straddled his waist, positioning herself so when she sank down, he slid easily inside her. She moaned in contentment at finally having him filling her up again, and when she rocked against him, this time Steve didn't stop her. Rather, he thrust into her, matching her movements with increasing strength.

Steve came first. He shuddered, jerking roughly up into her and then collapsing against the mattress. But thankfully, he only stilled for a moment or two before he resumed thrusting inside her, and thrusting faster when she whimpered the word. And just when the ache between her legs had grown almost painful, release uncoiled and Becca cried out in climax.

They remained as they were for perhaps a minute, panting and soaking in the pleasant aftereffects of their orgasms. Becca would've liked to stay like that forever, with him inside her and the rush of pleasure still tingling through her body. She leaned down to kiss Steve, which seemed to bring back some liveliness as he returned her kiss with fervor.

"That was…" he mumbled. "Was…"

Becca put a finger to his lips. "Hold that thought. We've still got a whole night ahead of us."

Although a lack of condoms limited their options, Becca showed Steve a whole variety of other ways they could bring each other to climax. He took some coaching, but his enthusiasm made up for his inexperience. There was a point where he determinedly made her orgasm several times over the course of about an hour before at last allowing her to return the favor, and well, how could anyone really complain after that kind of attention?

In the early hours of the morning, Becca had to call it quits. She was exhausted and sore, pleasantly so for now, but she knew she'd already pushed herself past her limits. As they were coated with sweat and come, showers were in order. Nothing sexy. Becca went first, rinsing off fast in the chilly water as she had no patience to wait for it to heat up. She brushed her teeth and used the toilet before giving Steve a turn. While he cleaned up, she stripped down her bed and borrowed the set of cleaner blankets. She could've used the other bed, but would've felt weird about being naked in the same bed where Vera slept with her kids.

Becca contemplated going to grab her nightgown, but decided that Steve should prove a warm enough source of heat. The bed wasn't exactly big. They would have to snuggle up, a rarity at home since Steve was such a light sleeper that any movement woke him. Poor guy, he wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight. Although, maybe after being fucked thoroughly, he'd catch a few hours. So she clambered into bed, resting on her side to give him as much space as possible.

When Steve returned to the bedroom, moving with a sluggish pace that made Becca optimistic for his chances of catching some 'z's, she lifted the blankets invitingly. He slipped beneath the covers, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he draped an arm over her. She reached back to turned off the light.

"You kept my drawing," Steve mumbled, nodding at the sketch of a park he'd given her for Christmas, which Becca kept propped up on her nightstand. "I wasn't sure."

"Why? Because I nearly burst into tears looking at it?" Becca switched the light off, throwing the sketch into near darkness. "That's because it was so good I could barely contain my happiness."

"Uh huh." Steve pulled up the blankets so they covered her shoulder. "I'm just glad you like it."

Gazing into his eyes, the guilt and sadness that Becca had suppressed rose back up. How could she take away this night from Steve when it made him look so blissfully content? How could she alter any part of him without his permission, knowing full well that he would never do such a thing to her? And after everything he'd been through. She shouldn't betray him by allowing his memories to be stolen. Maybe… maybe… But no, she had to. For the potential good of the world, yes, but mostly for herself. So she could get home and spend every day for the rest of forever making it up to him.

Frowning at her change of mood, Steve traced his fingers along her side. "What happened to you?"

"Well, not a fire," said Becca with forced lightheartedness. She was not about to spend the rest of the night explaining that aliens existed, and besides, in case Jack's memory wipe didn't work out, it was best to keep Steve in the dark.

"Then what? If it's something I can stop, I'll –"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I don't know what would happen to me if you did that." And Becca didn't even know _how_ Steve would if he tried when Thanos had enough power to pluck her out of anywhere. "We'll… we'll worry about it after the war, okay?"

Steve gave her one of his determined looks, saying without words that he meant to hold her to her promise. "All right."

To avoid any further questions, Becca kissed him one more time and nuzzled closer, closing her eyes. "Good night."

"Good night."

Becca listened to Steve's easy breathing, searching for comfort in the rhythmic ins and outs, but with each breath she was reminded that this was Steve, her Steve and not, and possibly the next time she saw him it would be to lure him into getting his memory wiped. And then hopefully she would see him again in the future or when he came for her, but she might not. They might never have another night.

"Steve?" Becca whispered. Surprisingly, Steve didn't answer. He didn't so much as twitch. "Steve?" She lifted her head.

Steve was asleep, every plane of his face relaxed in the dim light coming through the curtains. She had really tuckered him out. Or maybe he hadn't always been a light sleeper. Maybe the war had made him that way.

Careful not to disturb him with any sudden movements, Becca lowered her head, emotion forming like a lump in her throat. "I just wanted to say I love you." She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed, but the lump didn't go away.

Completely unaware, Steve slept on.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Okay, I hope you've gotten your fill of fluff, angst, and smut for one Friday. Tune in next week for science, deception, and (of course) more angst. Also, um, there are only two chapters left? Where has the time gone? I swear I just started writing this story. See you soon!**

 **(Crystal H: Thanks! I know last chapter was short, but I didn't want to put in unnecessary filler. At least this is back to the usual length.**

 **Guest: Thank you! I'm so glad you're enjoying. So now it's she knows he knows she knows he knows, but she knows he shouldn't know what he knows. There's a lot of knowing going on here haha But for how long? That's the million dollar question.)**


	23. Held Together By A Thread

Becca put three cubes of sugar into her tea, having learned the hard way of Jack's fondness for extraordinarily bitter black teas. She stirred her tea until the sugar dissolved, blew gently over the rising steam, and took a sip. Oh god. He had finally decided to change it up with an herbal tea, which was now much too sweet. She sighed and put down her cup, wishing it was filled with something a little more consistent, like coffee.

After swallowing a mouthful of his own tea, Jack set down his cup. "You seem troubled, Rebecca. Is it due to Captain Rogers accepting our proposal or due to his rejecting it? Unless, perhaps, you have changed your mind?"

Since Steve's recent departure from New York for his USO tour, Becca _had_ changed her mind about tricking him into getting his memories of her erased. And then changed her mind again. And again. And again. She wanted to make sure history stayed on track, and that future Steve was the same one she'd been torn away from. But she also hated to wipe away this new version of Steve who snuck off before catching his train to bring her flowers with this big, dopey, ridiculously adorable grin on his face.

However, the time had come for her to make an actual commitment. Whatever machines and neuro-technology stuff Jack would need to build, it would doubtlessly take way more than a few man-hours and a trip to the local depot. Not to mention, they needed to get Howard on board, which could get interesting depending on where he was currently residing. Hopefully not in Europe already because Becca wasn't sure even the promise of mind-wipe technology could call him back from the warfront. Or if they should be calling him away from the war that helped turn Stark Industries into an empire.

"I have a few questions first, if that's okay," said Becca.

Jack nodded agreeably. "Of course."

"Great. Um, well first off, I know you said that Steve'll have a headache for a couple days after the operation, but what about during? Because I heard the original Hydra technology was very painful."

"There should be no pain. Would it put you more at ease if I were to walk you through the procedure?"

That was going to be Becca's next question. "Please."

Jack took a moment to collect his thoughts. "The operation would take place in two parts. During the first, I would put Captain Rogers under an anesthetic. While he was unconscious, I would use a different, numbing anesthetic to eliminate pain and a sedative to keep him calm. I would then bore a small hole in his skull to expose the temporal lobe where long-term memories are stored. A device of my own design would be inserted to measure the electrical impulses in that area. At this point, he would be awoken and prompted to think of you. That area of his brain would then be mapped, and I would additionally collect a small sample of the tissue. Are you following along so far?"

Nothing had confused her too much, so Becca nodded.

"Good. Now, this is where the procedure becomes more technically complex." Jack took a sip from his cup and set it aside. On the saucer he created two rows of sugar cubes with a finger's width of space between them. "Memory is stored in small spaces called synapses which exist between the neurons that make up a brain. When neurotransmitters cross these spaces –" He lifted another sugar cube. As it passed over the space, he displayed a surprising sleight of hand and a penny appeared between his fingers in place of the sugar cube. "– they are transformed, and that, essentially, is memory." He set the penny on top of the row of sugar cubes. "I could expand upon this, but it would involve quite a bit of scientific explanation. Which I would of course be happy to give you, but you might prefer to take me at my word?"

With all the crazy that had gone on her life, Becca had learned to more or less go along with science that went partially over her head. "That's okay. I've got it."

"As you will," said Jack with a gentle bob of his chin. "So then, the technology that Hydra originally created simply… short-circuited this area of the brain by electrocuting the neurons, which prevented the normal electrical impulses which travel across the synapses with neurotransmitters. Until, that is, the neurons began to heal, at which point they would have to electrocute the area again. What I would do is much more precise and permanent."

Jack lifted the bowl of sugar cubes. "I would create a bio-chemical compound that, when dispersed, will target the synapses with memories pertaining to you and plug them up so neurotransmitters will not be able to cross." He tipped the bowl, and the cubes tumbled out, filling up the space between the neat rows of cubes. "Thereby, effectively erasing you from Captain Roger's mind."

"But…" Becca pondered the mess of sugar cubes. "How does the compound know to target those specific synapses?" She wanted to be sure Jack wasn't accidently erasing other parts of Steve's memory. "You said you'll take a sample of the brain tissue, but will it still be working or whatever once it's out?"

"Ah, that is why I will have measured the impulses as they are occurring. For a time, one can apply electrical stimulus to brain tissue in order to achieve the same results as would occur in a living brain. The compound 'learns' to clot in areas with matching impulses."

"Okay." Becca nodded. "I think I've got it. So then you'll just put that compound into his brain?"

"Yes. The second procedure is much the same as the first. I would put him under anesthesia, reopen the skull, wake him, prompt him to think of you. Only this time I would inject him with the compound." Jack gestured to the sugar cube model. "I would then put him back under and stitch the wound closed. With his healing capabilities, it should not take longer than a week for his skull to heal. And that would be all."

The explanation as Jack had given it sounded efficient. He obviously knew what he was doing, and he'd said he had performed this operation before. Steve wouldn't be in pain, and really would only be awake half the time. And when he was awake, he'd be thinking of her, so by the end, he shouldn't remember the procedure at all. Becca felt slightly better, having spent too many nights in the grip of vivid nightmares in which Steve was hooked up to various menacing, Frankenstein-esque machines.

"So this all sounds fine, but there's a bit of a snag," Becca admitted. "Steve doesn't want to have the operation."

Jack frowned. "I see." He placed the sugar bowl so the rim rested against the table and began scooping the sugar cubes back in.

"But I was kinda hoping you would do it anyway." Jack paused for a split second. He resumed cleaning up the cubes, but more slowly, like he was thinking. Becca rushed on, "I really think this is the best way to make sure the future is on track. I know it's a bit unethical to erase some of Steve's memories without his permission, but if it's for the greater good, I think he'd forgive us. And you did say that you wanted the timeline to stay as much the same as possible so… so…"

"I am not hesitating because I am in disagreement with your decision," Jack informed her. He set the bowl back in its place, meticulously turning it until the base was positioned exactly as it had been before. "I merely needed to reassess as this scenario was amongst the more complicated ones." He regarded her seriously. "Are you certain in your choice?"

Becca shrugged. "As certain as I'm going to be."

"Well then." Jack refreshed his cup of tea. "We had best get started."

The one task assigned to Becca was tracking down Howard. Jack insisted that he'd take care of the rest for now. Becca offered to make trips for him so he didn't have to go out all covered up, but Jack said he had some acquaintances who would do the legwork, so she left him to it. After all, she definitely wasn't going to be any help in creating futuristic technologies. She could barely assemble a table from IKEA. So basically, her job amounted to leaving a letter at Stark Industries and twiddling her thumbs until she heard back.

Which she did, luckily.

Becca was worried that Howard wouldn't be on board with doing the operation against Steve's will, and having him on board was a necessity. Not only did Jack need Howard's resources in America, but also Howard could provide Steve's medical records as well as creating a cover for the operation. Jack suggested that they tell Steve this was no more than another test to do with the serum, and having Howard around would authenticate that cover.

To credit Howard, he did seem to take a step back when Becca told him that Steve didn't want the operation. But after speaking with Jack and working himself up into a lather over the prospect of creating memory-altering technology, it was a done deal.

"I've got a lab right on the edge of upper Manhattan I can have cleared out in a couple of days," said Howard, pacing around his desk, which he'd be doing for most of the meeting. "I'll get you a key."

"It is most greatly appreciated," Jack thanked him.

"Swell. Now for this neuro-impulse scanner, what kind of…"

Becca stuck around for a while longer, but there was only so much science talk she could listen to before staring at wallpaper began to seem a more interesting use of her time. She left them bent over Howard's desk with pencils in hand as they sketched over each other's work.

In the months that followed, Becca barely saw Jack or Howard. She did stop by to twice to see the lab, both times when she started having doubts about the operation. Not because she didn't trust the procedure, but because the idea of erasing Steve's memories without his permission left her with a persistent, biting sense of guilt.

The lab looked very clean, and while any building with a medical feel unsettled her to a degree, it was not overly forbidding. The neuro-impulse scanner – NIS for short – looked like a metal stand with a cylindrical rod sticking out of one side. It was attached to a larger contraption which was rectangular, but curved, and sort of reminded her of an x-ray machine. This was a neuro-mapping device, or NMD. Howard excitedly pointed out all the parts to her, explaining their functions.

"So basically the NIS takes the measurements, and the NMD converts those measurements into visuals is what you're saying," Becca summarized.

Howard looked at her like she'd seen the Holy Grail and called it a shiny cup. He shook his head and crouched to work some more on the base of the NIS, muttering under his breath about lack of scientific vision.

Watching him focusing so diligently on the equipment, Becca had doubts about whether he should be so involved. She had thought that Jack would have him working on smaller parts or something. Less risk that way. She wandered over to where Jack was putting together his bio-chemical compound.

"Do you really think it's okay to let Howard see so much of this?" Becca murmured, trying to keep her voice low, but not so low that Howard would be suspicious. "He'll definitely replicate your work, and that might not be good."

"With the state of technology as it is presently, this process is going more slowly than I would like," Jack replied at an equal volume. "What should have taken two weeks has already taken two months. We have only weeks left until Steve returns for a final performance before traveling overseas. I need him." He snorted impatiently and set down the pipette in his hand with unusual force.

Sweat ran down Jack's face, the streaks reveling tinges of green underneath his flesh colored makeup. The skin beneath his eyes was bruised with sleeplessness, not easily covered up. The project was obviously taking a toll. Becca wished she could be more useful.

"I could talk to him. Maybe –"

"I think you have done quite enough."

Becca bowed her head, stung by the sharpness of his words. And he had a point. They wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for her. "Sorry. I'll… get out of your way then."

As she slunk towards the door, Jack called, "Rebecca!" He strode over to where Rebecca had stopped. "I apologize. That was appallingly rude of me."

"It's fine. I understand."

"Well, I do hope you know that I respect you for allowing this operation to go forward. I know that it was not a decision made lightly." Jack clasped one of her hands in both of his. "Allow me to take care of the rest."

"Okay," Becca agreed. "If you need me, I'm at –"

"Do not worry." Jack patted her hand once and smiled. "I know where to find you." He let go of her hand and headed back towards his work station.

Funny, Becca didn't think she'd told Jack her new address, but maybe she had? He did have her followed that one time. She had almost forgotten about that. But he didn't have a reason to have her followed again, right? She walked towards the exit, glancing over her shoulder at the last minute. Jack had resumed his work, peering closely at a petri dish on the countertop. He was just careful, that's all. She had trusted him this far, and he treated her well.

This was stupid. She was getting all jumpy about nothing because the operation made her nervous and not having anything to do, she was fixating on tiny, insignificant details. Becca clicked her tongue, annoyed with herself. Steve was going to be fine. This was all going to be fine.

But as Becca left the lab and got in the back of the taxi waiting outside, guilt once again began to eat at her stomach.

* * *

Seeing the skyline of New York growing closer through the train window was like a cold, quiet shower after a night parading in costume under the bright, sweltering lights of a crowded and buzzing theatre. All of the tension that had built up like a layer of sweat over the course of his tour washed away. Steve couldn't wait to see the Barneses and Rebecca, if only briefly before the tour went overseas. The promotional managers and dancers he had traveled with were nice enough, but he felt as though they talked to this other persona, Captain America, and not _him_.

Once the train pulled into the station and all their baggage had been unloaded, the troupe was directed toward the subway which would take them to their hotel. A couple of the girls flitted around Steve, asking if he would carry their bags and fluttering their eyelashes. He did carry a number of suitcases, but remained immune to their advances. Despite his insistence that he had someone waiting back home, some of the girls weren't leaving him be. This was partially his fault, Steve supposed, as he wasn't very forceful with them. But when they started macking on him, he got all flustered and didn't know what to say and usually ended up making a shame-faced exit with their giggles following him.

At the hotel, Steve made such an escape into his assigned room. The final show was scheduled for tomorrow evening, so he had time on his hands. He unpacked his suitcase before leaving on a bus headed toward Brooklyn.

Writing letters had been difficult since he'd moved around so much, but Steve had sent tour schedules along with his initial letters and always included the addresses of the next hotel where he would be staying. He wrote one to Mrs. Barnes and Becky and another to Rebecca weekly, and occasionally penned others to Kathy and Lucy.

Rebecca's replies were the shortest. She said little and less about herself, mostly commenting on his letters. He got a surprise once when she had signed a letter "Love, Becca," but when he noted the use of the nickname, Rebecca hadn't given him an answer. Mrs. Barnes and Becky wrote the longest letters, though that was due in part to having both of them write on the same sheet of paper. It was from them that Steve received updates on Rebecca, as he had asked that they make sure she was getting along all right. He also got news on the neighborhood and such.

In her last letter, Mrs. Barnes had insisted that he come over for a home-cooked dinner when he got back, and Steve was plenty happy to oblige. Being back in his old neighborhood made him feel less like a shut up zoo animal, and even the sight of the familiar apartment door was a sight for sore eyes.

Mrs. Barnes answered the door with a wide smile. And behind her were not only all three Barnes sisters, but people from all around the neighborhood who he'd known since he was a kid. Pastor McClain, who looked nearly as old as the church he ran. Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, who always had fresh cookies to spare when he and Bucky came knocking on their door. Mr. Browne, who worked for the press, and had occasionally slipped Steve half-used pencils or fading pens so he could practice his sketching. And Lawrence was there too, chatting with Mrs. O'Leary, a downstairs neighbor who had brought Steve meals when Ma got sick.

"Welcome home," Mrs. Barnes greeted, hugging him tight. "I know it's not quite as much of a to-do as Bucky's send off, but –"

"It's just right," Steve assured her. His eyes misted up, and he blinked to clear them up. "Thank you."

"Of course, love. Go greet your guests. Dinner will be along shortly."

Steve moved into the apartment, and though there were plenty of surprised comments at his improved stature and questions about the serum, he didn't mind having to repeat himself. These were the people he knew, and although they would marvel over the changes he had undergone, they were also quick to fill him in on the neighborhood gossip and talk about the war as if nothing had changed. And until he was in the middle of all this with the smell of ground pork and potatoes in the air, Steve hadn't realized just how much he'd missed Brooklyn.

Despite enjoying himself, Steve couldn't help but notice one person's conspicuous absence as he looked around.

"Looking for Rebecca?" Becky guessed, having escaped for the moment from her mother's reign over the stove. "We did invite her, but something must've come up. There is a cough going 'round, too, so maybe it's that. Otherwise, I'm sure she'd be here." Becky gave him a smug look. "She's missed you."

"You think?"

On the one hand, Steve got a thrill from the idea of Rebecca missing him, knowing that she might have been thinking of him during those same times when he thought of her. On the other hand, it made him hate that he had to leave her behind to travel to Europe. Bucky had told him at Lucy's wedding reception that most men would give anything to stay home with their girl rather than go off to war. Steve hadn't understood then, but now he'd move mountains if it meant staying in New York with Rebecca to make sure she was well taken care of. But he had signed a contract with the army, and even more importantly, there were a lot of people who could use his help. He knew she understood, especially considering all the trouble she'd gone through to ensure he joined up.

"I don't think. I know," Becky assured him. "Last time we visited, Ma started talking about you, how proud she is, how she's happy you finally found a nice girl – You went on an awful lot about Rebecca in your letters, you know –"

Steve muttered, "I didn't." Although, reflecting back, he had asked after Rebecca consistently. And maybe he'd written about a few times that something had reminded him of her. And he had gone on a whole tangent once, but they hadn't even gotten that letter because he'd realized three pages in that he had written far too much about her and got a fresh sheet of paper to start over.

"– but also how much she'll miss having her boys around. And Rebecca started crying. It sounded like she was going to try and excuse herself, but then Ma starting crying. You should have seen them." Becky shook her head. "Rebecca was trying to apologize – for getting you into the army, I think – but Ma wouldn't hear it. And then, Rebecca said, 'I miss him, too' and Ma hugged her tight and they were a mess really."

Feeling progressively worse, Steve said, "No tears from you though, huh?"

"Of course not," Becky huffed, although her eyes slid away from his. "Because I _know_ you're coming home, you and Bucky. I'm not worried. You'll be back before we know it." When her eyes returned to his, Steve could read the uncertainty there. Becky was worried, more so than she was letting on. "Right?"

"Right." Steve smiled reassuringly. "Rebecca thinks I'll be coming back a war hero. Won't that be something?"

He expected Becky to laugh or tell him he had to be realistic. Instead, she flicked back her hair with an annoyed twitch of her chin. "Just come home."

Once Mrs. Barnes announced that dinner was ready, the guests crowded around the table which had been extended using two hope chests and flat wooden panels with a tablecloth thrown over the top. Steve thought the food tasted better than any he'd had in months, even including those fancy restaurants the tour managers had taken him out to. He stayed until every last guest had gone and helped clean up the kitchen. Mrs. Barnes gave him a letter from Bucky, which had been passed along to her from his old apartment.

While he was sorely tempted to take the bed offered to him, Steve went back to the hotel since his room there had already been paid for. On the way, he thought of checking up on Rebecca, but it was very late, so he resolved to try and catch her before work the next morning.

However, when Steve entered the hotel, the concierge flagged him down with a message that he was to report to Stark Industries bright and early. He guessed that the government scientists wanted to run some additional tests before they shipped him overseas. Between that and the show tomorrow evening, it seemed like he wouldn't be seeing Rebecca until the day after, unless he found the time. He would certainly give it a try, if nothing else to see whether or not she was sick. He went up to his room, where he read Bucky's letter and wrote out a reply before going to bed.

In the morning, Steve got up, ordered room service – his appetite had quadrupled since getting the serum so missing a meal was no longer an option – and headed over to Stark Industries, where a team of scientists and doctors poked and prodded and took samples. They seemed intent on draining him of blood to the point where he felt lightheaded by the time he was allowed to leave.

"Hold on!" Steve stopped in the hallway, allowing Mr. Stark to catch up. "There's one more test we've got for you before you can go."

"All right," Steve sighed and turned back towards the lab.

"Oh, it's not here. This test requires some special equipment, so it's in another lab of mine," Mr. Stark explained. "Come on. We'll take my car." So Steve followed him to the garage and got into the car, wishing he could go back to the hotel and lay down. "We've got to run this test on your brain. Actually, it's kinda a two-part test. The first part's today and the second's tomorrow."

Steve didn't much care – he let the specialists do what they needed to, and anyway they rarely offered to explain what they were doing – but he threw Mr. Stark an "uh huh" of acknowledgement.

"See, the thing is, in Erskine's experiments, before you of course, there were a couple of problems with the animal's brains. Not towards the end. He thought he'd smoothed it all out, but we want to make sure."

Suddenly, Steve was paying attention. "What kind of problems?"

"Oh, parts of the brain swelling," said Mr. Stark with a shrug. He stepped hard on the breaks as the car in front of them screeched to an abrupt halt. "You haven't been getting reoccurring headaches have you?"

"No." Although, Steve did remember having a bit of one about a month back, but one wasn't reoccurring. Still, now he was concerned. "Well, I did have one."

"One's not a problem. It's unlikely you've got any swelling. We're checking to be sure, you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine." When Mr. Stark glanced at him, Steve thought he looked relieved. Steve didn't know if that meant he should be more worried.

The lab was a small, isolated brick building about a fifteen minute drive outside of Manhattan. Mr. Stark pulled up beside the only other car out front and parked. Steve followed him inside. The interior of the building had a sterilized smell to it, like the hospitals where Ma had worked. He was brought into a room that had some strange looking equipment set up around a chair straight out of a kid's nightmare about the dentist. The chair was long and cushioned like a dentist's chair, but it had open, metal restraints on the arm rests and footrests and curved bars around where someone's head would rest. As Steve got closer, he also noticed that the chair was bolted to the floor. Unease prickled along the back of his neck.

Another door opened, revealing a middle-aged man in a lab coat. The skin on his face seemed strange, too thick or something, but otherwise he had no features that stood out particularly.

Mr. Stark introduced, "Steve, this is Dr. McCullough. He's, uh, well I guess you could say he's a brain expert."

Dr. McCullough stuck out a gloved hand. "Captain Rogers, I am most honored to meet you."

After Captain America had gained popularity, his promotional managers had insisted that the army give Steve the rank of captain for authenticity. The title embarrassed him as he had done nothing to earn the rank. "Thank you, doctor. But Steve's fine, or Mr. Rogers." He shook the doctor's hand.

As Mr. Stark had done, Dr. McCullough explained that this test was about making sure his brain was in good shape. He expanded on the procedure, how he was taking a sample and using it to make a kind of vaccine for his brain which would be ready tomorrow, and how he'd have to drill a hole into Steve's skull.

"A very small one," Dr. McCullough promised. "And I have done this many times before, so you need not worry. This will be as unobtrusive as possible."

He also added, when Steve approached the nightmarish chair with trepidation, that all the restraints were to ensure that he remained still, as the slightest movement could cause damage. Steve supposed he should be grateful, but having cuffs screwed shut to hold him in place still made him nervous.

But when the anesthetic and sedative kicked in, it wasn't so bad. Steve felt fine, like he was melting right into the chair. And then…

* * *

Steve's eyelids flickered open. The ceiling had a bright, hazy quality to it. His body felt light, like a balloon ready to float up into that hazy ceiling and drift through and up into the sky. Only his head was heavier than the rest of him, especially on the left side. He didn't like how that part felt. He wanted to shake his head, but he was supposed to stay still.

Dr. McCullough's face appeared above him. "You are awake. Excellent. Can you tell me your name?"

"Steve Rogers." His voice sounded slurred and far away.

"Good. Can you tell me about what you did on Christmas last year?"

"Went to church. Had dinner with Bucky and his family. We had a whole chicken."

"Excellent, captain, excellent." Dr. McCullough looked behind the chair, which confused Steve for a second, but when he listened, he could hear someone breathing. Then, he remembered Mr. Stark was there. Dr. McCullough nodded and looked back at Steve. "Now, this next part will feel most uncomfortable. I find it helps my patients to think of something pleasant. A favorite book. A friend. Maybe you have special someone in your life?"

Rebecca. Steve hoped she was all right. He should go see her after this. No, he had to go to the show. But soon. She would be happy to see him. And she'd smile. She had the prettiest smile.

"Ah, there is someone. What is her name?"

"Rebecca," he said proudly. "She's real, real swell."

"I am sure she is."

The left side of his head began to feel warmer. Something hummed and beeped. Steve gritted his teeth. It felt wrong, this thing in his head. He wanted it out.

"Close your eyes and think of Rebecca," Dr. McCullough suggested. "We do not want you moving. Try and remember how you met. Or perhaps a favorite memory of her."

Steve shut his eyes and thought back. Rebecca slumped beside his door, shivering. Rebecca taking his hand on the dance floor. Rebecca sitting beside his bed while he was sick, peering down at a book with rapt concentration. Rebecca wrinkling her nose, freckles bunching together as they argued over worker's rights. Rebecca leaning down to kiss him with her soft, soft lips. Rebecca gloriously naked above him, mouth parted in a gasp.

Steve slid from memory to memory as the humming continued and Dr. McCullough and Mr. Stark murmured to each other in what might has well have been another language for all he understood them. He attempted to block out that thing in his head, the strange, wrong thing he wanted out.

"We are finished for now, captain," said Dr. McCullough's voice, to Steve's relief. "I am going to put you back to sleep."

It turned out to be fortunate that he had been restrained because Steve tried to nod. He remembered and held still again, Rebecca's smile following him into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Steve awoke, the unpleasant sensation of something inside his head was gone. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling until Dr. McCullough popped into view.

"We have completed the first part of your procedure," said Dr. McCullough with a comforting smile. "The good news is that there is no discernible swelling. I am going to have you rest here until the anesthetic wears off, but I would like to ask some brief questions."

Steve nodded, realizing as he did that he still couldn't move. "Can you get the…the…" He couldn't think of the word, but shifted his arms.

"In a moment. Questions first. There are only three. Just to be sure no damage has been done to your brain."

Too woozy to argue, Steve kept quiet.

"Your name?" Dr. McCullough asked.

"Steve Rogers."

"And what part of New York do you live in?"

"Brooklyn."

"Good. Now, when you woke up during the procedure, you mentioned someone. Can you remember who that person is?"

Steve laughed. It seemed ludicrous to him to be asked whether or not he remembered talking about Rebecca, but gradually he realized that the question wasn't as funny as he'd thought. "Yes. Her name's Rebecca."

Dr. McCullough beckoned across the room. Steve thought he saw a flash of green between the doctor's glove and his lab coat, but he must have imagined it. "That was very good. You rest now, and Mr. Stark and I will get you out of these restraints."

For the next hour, Steve remained in the chair until Dr. McCullough announced he was fit to leave. Mr. Stark drove Steve to his hotel and said he would come back at eleven tomorrow. Steve agreed before going back to his room to lay down, although he was careful to lay on his right side as Dr. McCullough had instructed. He fell asleep, waking up to knocking on his door.

Clara, one of the dancers, had come to get him. It was time to get to the Radio City Music Hall and start getting ready for the show. Steve thanked her, and she went to knock on the next door. He brushed his teeth, examining the spot that Dr. McCullough had drilled open. A small patch of hair had been shaved away, the skin there stitched up. If he brushed his hair, the spot was mostly covered. It wouldn't matter. He would be wearing his mask.

Steve waited for the girls to gather up and saw them to the subway. Most of them were either from or familiar with New York City, but he preferred to stand watch to make sure none of them got lost or received any unwanted attention.

Backstage was chaos, but an organized chaos Steve had grown used to. He got his own dressing room, where he paced around until the last minute before putting on the Captain America costume. He could've sleepwalked through the rest. Stand in the wings. Wait through an introduction. Music cue. Curtain up. Go out and repeat the same speech about the war and buying war bonds. Throw a fake punch – aim a foot away, so as not to accidently hit the actor playing Hitler in the face, which he had done in St. Louis and knocked the actor out cold. Listen to the theme that he would catch himself whistling at odd times of the day and was regrettably sure would never leave his head. Applause. Wave. Curtain down.

Then, Steve went out to the lobby. And it was get blinded by flashbulbs. Hold a baby or set a kid on his shoulders. Sign autographs.

Only Steve was broken out of the routine when he spotted Rebecca behind the photographers. She turned away as soon as he'd spotted her and headed for the door. He hastily finished signing the program a dame had handed him. "I'll be back in a minute," he promised the other people waiting for his signature, who were mostly young kids. "Rebecca!"

Rebecca teetered forward and back, like she couldn't decide whether to stay or go. But she stayed. "Oh, hey."

Steve would've liked nothing more than to give her a kiss or at least a hug, but with all the people in the lobby, he resisted. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I bought a ticket awhile ago. Couldn't resist seeing you humiliated in front of a crowd of people. I mean, I came for moral support." Rebecca gave him a half smile and tapped the star on his chest. "This looks… uncomfortable."

Embarrassed, Steve pulled off his mask and ran a hand through his hair. Parading around on stage like a circus act had been bad enough when the audience was full of strangers. Having people he knew see him was worse. The Barneses had probably come as well and would spill out through the still emptying theatre at any minute. He was almost glad to not be returning to Brooklyn, as he would probably become the laughing stock of the neighborhood. Even being scrawny and mostly ignored was better than that.

"The costumes's not all bad," Steve remarked. "Course it's tight in all the places you don't want it to be, gets hotter the longer you wear it, and looks like it came right out of a kid's book, but I think the blue really compliments my eyes."

"You're not wrong." Rebecca jumped as a camera went off, the photographer having crept close to them. Steve stepped in between, blocking her, but the damage had been done. She glanced nervously around, taking a step back towards the door. "I should let you get back to your public."

Steve nearly told her that his public didn't matter and could keep standing around, but that wasn't the agreement he'd made with the USO. And he would hate to disappoint the kids. "Would you wait for me? It shouldn't be much longer. We could go wherever you like."

"Um…"

"Please?" Steve didn't like to push, but he wanted to spend some time with Rebecca before he left tomorrow.

Rebecca sighed. "Okay, sure. I'll be outside." She left muttering about how she couldn't believe the puppy dog look still worked after all these years.

Of course, the remainder of his Captain America duties ticked by like the world's slowest clock, speeding up only when Mrs. Barnes came to say hello. She apologized for the absence of the Barnes sisters, explaining fretfully that the cost of tickets had been too high. But Steve assured her that it meant a lot that she had come and sent her on her way with a parting hug.

When he was finally freed, Steve changed out of his costume and tracked down Rebecca, who had been pacing the sidewalk outside. He repeated his offer to take her anywhere, but when she insisted it didn't matter where they went, he decided to take her to out to dinner. Backstage, he had overheard the one of girls bragging about how her man was taking her to The Rainbow Room, which was notoriously difficult to get into. It was only a chance they could get in without a reservation, but on his first night out with his future wife and an unusual amount of spare change burning a hole in his wallet, Steve was feeling up to taking a chance. He rethought his choice when Rebecca informed him that she had missed the party last night because she had been feeling unwell, but she dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand.

"Are _you_ feeling okay?" Rebecca asked, peering at him intently as they strolled arm in arm in the direction of Rockefeller Plaza. "Any aches? Pains? Maybe a headache?"

"No."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

Steve touched the spot beside where he had been stitched up. That part of his head throbbed, but faintly. Nothing that would bother him unless he focused on it. "Sure."

However, Rebecca ignored him, reaching up and brushing back his hair to reveal the wound. She bit on her lower lip, and her grip on his arm tightened. She dropped her hand and looked away, but Steve could see she was upset.

"That's nothing," he promised. "Just part of some test Howard and another scientist had to run. It'll heal up fast. In a couple days, I probably won't even remember I had it."

Rebecca shuddered, and Steve thought with distress that she was going to start crying, but instead she flashed him a wide smile. The effect of her bright smile against the pain in her eyes was even more alarming than tears.

"Rebecca, are –"

"Hush." Rebecca lifted her chin, determination set in her posture. "We're going to have a good time tonight, and nothing's going to ruin it."

"But –"

"No buts."

"Can I –"

"No."

"Wi –"

"Nu uh. No talking. Whenever I let you talk, you win the argument."

Steve snorted in exasperation.

"Better."

Shaking his head, Steve had to smile. Rebecca could be stubborn as heck and had the same smart mouth she'd once accused him of having, if to a lesser degree. He was going to miss her. He imagined she had gotten upset for much the same reason. And maybe seeing his wound had reminded her of other wounds that had yet to be inflicted upon him. For now though, he respected her wish and left their concerns behind for the date he had once unsuccessfully tried to get.

Someone upstairs must've been looking out for him. Not only did the Rainbow Room have an opening, but the host recognized Steve's face from the papers – a miracle as he had rarely appeared without his mask – and had children who were fans of Captain America. Steve wasn't used to being recognized in public. He wasn't too sure how he felt about getting treated special just because he autographed a handkerchief and a couple of menus, but with Rebecca on his arm, he wasn't going to change his mind as they were ushered inside.

The Rainbow Room was the ritziest place Steve had ever set foot in, a round room with a crystalline chandelier in the center and large widows draped in thick curtains. Tables were set neatly around the dance floor, and he recognized Harry James and his orchestra playing.

Steve and Rebecca ate and caught up on what they'd missed. Rebecca asked most of the questions, curious about his tour, but he didn't let her avoid talking about herself like in her letters. Although Dr. McCullough had advised Steve against anything that would involve moving his head around, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to dance, especially since Rebecca loved it so much. She eyed his stitches worriedly, but when he promised to take it easy, she accepted his hand.

Steve had to relearn how to dance in his larger body, but the months which had passed had given him a measure of control so he didn't bump into the people around them quite as much as he might've in the first week after getting the serum. He was particularly careful with Rebecca, however, so he didn't step on her toes or anything like that. Eventually, he even got up enough confidence to dip her, at which she squeaked before laughing in delight.

Of course, his impending departure overseas lingered between them, unspoken in Rebecca's sad glance when she thought he wasn't looking or the wistfulness he felt when she leaned against his chest as the band played 'You Made Me Love You.' So it wasn't the perfect date he'd dreamed of, but he was glad they had the chance to go out together nonetheless.

In the early morning hours, when they were both yawning and bleary eyed, Steve hailed a cab to get them to Rebecca's apartment. She nuzzled against his shoulder, resting her head, and he wrapped an arm around her. It was a shame they didn't have anywhere private to go. He wouldn't have minded spending one last night together, not for sex, but just to have Rebecca's soft form to hold as he drifted off to sleep and her face to wake up to. Well, he could have that after the war was done.

Steve paid the cab driver when they got out. He felt like taking a last walk around Brooklyn once he'd seen Rebecca to her apartment. He headed for the staircase leading up, but she pulled him beneath it, and in the hidden niche, kissed him breathless.

When they finally had to part for air, Steve saw the tears that had spilled down her cheeks. Guilt weighed heavily as Rebecca hugged him, her face pressed to his chest. He kissed the top of her head and held her to him.

"Remember, I'm coming back for you," he murmured.

Rebecca sniffed. "You promise?" She sniffed again and leaned back an inch to dig through her purse. "God, that sounded pathetic. Never mind. I know you'll try." She took out a handkerchief to rub her nose.

Frowning, Steve insisted, "I will, I promise. Rebecca." She looked up at him. "I promise."

Rebecca nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. She opened her mouth, but shut it quickly and gave him a final, lingering kiss. Then, she took his hand, and they walked up to her apartment.

"Good luck," she wished him, still looking pensive. "Maybe… maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'd like that," Steve said, although the day would be a busy one, and he wasn't sure he would be able to sneak away. "When do you have to go to work? We could get breakfast before if it's not too early."

"I… I might take it off. Look, where are you staying?"

"The Fieldstone on 8th and 26th."

"Okay, I'll… well, if I'm there, I'm there. Let's say by nine at the latest, okay?"

"All right."

Rebecca stood on her tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight, Rebecca."

As the door shut, Steve turned and walked down the stairs, hoping she would be there for one last goodbye.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Jack's explanation of memory and his devices are based on scientific research from several sources, but mainly my psychology textbook from freshman year of college, which I never thought I'd use again. Also, the Rainbow Room is a real place way up above Rockefeller Plaza, and has actually been reopened in recent years.**

 **Only one chapter left! What will happen to Steve and Becca? Well, you'll know next week. See you soon.**

 **(Crystal H: Thanks! One more to go.**

 **Guest: Thank you! It's true. Steve's life has changed a lot, and I also agree that I'd be a little jealous of Peggy if I were in Becca's shoes. However, I don't think Becca would be that jealous, especially with the knowledge that they're going to get married one day while Steve and Peggy only kiss once. Still, yes, heartbreak. Sadness. It's a hell of a time for anyone.)**


	24. Gone

When Steve woke up, he remained in bed for an extra couple of minutes. It would be the last time for a while he had a real mattress to sleep on. He would've rested longer except that he realized he'd rolled over onto his left side during the night. Jerking upright, he touching the stitched-up wound where Dr. McCullough had bored a hole into his skull. The area didn't feel wet or irritated. An examination in the washroom mirror revealed that thankfully the stitches had stayed in place, and the skin even appeared to be already healing.

Once out of bed, getting back in never felt as satisfying, so Steve changed, combed his hair, and packed up what little he had bothered to remove from his suitcase. He didn't expect Rebecca to arrive quite so early – if she showed at all, though he remained hopeful – but there was no harm in waiting. He left the hotel to drop his letter to Bucky in a post box and pick up the morning paper. He brought the paper back to the hotel lobby where he settled into one of the chairs to read.

Midway through an article about the British air raid against Cologne, Steve was interrupted by someone hailing him from across the lobby. That someone was not Rebecca, but rather Mr. Stark.

"What're ya doing down here?" Mr. Stark asked. "If it's hiding from last night's mistake, I have to tell you, the hiding in plain sight routine doesn't usually work."

"No, I'm meeting Rebecca." Steve folded his newspaper. "You didn't come for me, did you?"

"Afraid so."

Steve glanced at the clock behind the front desk. Mr. Stark had said he would be coming by at eleven. It was only ten past seven. "You're early."

"There's been a change in schedule." Mr. Stark looked at Steve curiously. "You're meeting Rebecca? Our Rebecca?"

Disgruntled at Mr. Stark speaking as if he had some kind of claim on Rebecca, Steve asserted, "Yes. So tell Dr. McCullough that I'm sorry, but I'll be there as soon as I can. And I'll take a cab."

"Why?"

Confused, Steve repeated, "Why?"

"Why are you meeting her?" Mr. Stark clarified.

Steve shrugged. "To have breakfast, say goodbye to my girl." Having a girl might not seem all that special to a guy like Mr. Stark, but it was to him. Any time he even thought about the fact that had a girl – a _wife_ – pride surged in his chest, a feeling that was almost like being drunk – the good kind of drunk before the alcohol really hit. He couldn't have suppressed a smile if he'd tried.

Mr. Stark didn't return the smile. He tucked his hands into his pockets and considered Steve with an air of seriousness that tampered Steve's good mood. "When's she coming?"

"By nine if she can make it."

After checking his watch, Mr. Stark shook his head. "Sorry, I've gotta get you to the lab," he apologized with what sounded like genuine regret. "McCullough's on a schedule. I can drive you by Rebecca's place to say goodbye."

Steve debated. He understood that schedules changed, and Dr. McCullough and Mr. Stark must have other important duties and needed to get this procedure finished. But he didn't want Rebecca to come by and be disappointed to find him gone.

"How long will getting the vaccine take?" Steve asked. The first part of the operation couldn't have taken more than two hours or so yesterday, but he figured getting a vaccine in his brain might take less time.

"It'll be over before you know it."

That sounded about right to Steve. "All right. Then I'll come with you. Give me a minute."

Steve left a message with the concierge in case Rebecca came by. He followed Mr. Stark to his car parked out in front of the hotel by a valet who was trying hold onto his hat as buffets of hot wind swept between the buildings. After they pulled onto the street, Mr. Stark offered again to take him to Rebecca's, but Steve turned him down. He wasn't sure whether she would be out and about already or still sleeping.

They drove to the lab where Dr. McCullough was waiting. Steve shook his hand and headed right for the operating chair, which looked as imposing as it had last time with its metal restraints. However, before they could begin, Mr. Stark said he needed to speak with the doctor, and the two headed into an adjacent room. Steve couldn't hear them well what with a shut door and some distance making his enhanced hearing almost useless, not to mention that he was attempting not to eavesdrop, but when he heard Rebecca's name, he listened more closely. From what little he could pick out, it sounded like Howard was explaining that Steve was supposed to meet with Rebecca for goodbyes, to which Dr. McCullough responded with something about "their time" and "preserving timelines."

Steve was still working on stringing together what Dr. McCullough had been talking about, when they came back into the room. Mr. Stark didn't look happy, but whatever the disagreement between the two men was, either he had lost or they had agreed to set differences aside for the moment because he went over to grab a lab coat while Dr. McCullough approached the chair.

"Thank you for your patience, Captain," he said, adjusting a glass IV bottle to his satisfaction. "I will start you on the anesthetic while we get these restraints shut."

"Actually sir, I was hoping we could do this without the anesthetic," Steve confided. He figured getting a needle put into his brain couldn't hurt worse than getting injections all over his body, and he would endure a moment of agony if it meant he could get to Rebecca faster. "The restraints seem to be keeping me still, and I don't mind a little pain. I figure it'll be over faster that way."

Dr. McCullough seemed surprised at the request. "But your pain is unnecessary."

"All the same, I don't mind."

Dr. McCullough frowned at him, but ultimately decided, "I will not apply any kind of anesthetic if you do not wish it, but I do have to insist on a sedative to ensure you cause no harm."

What could Steve do but agree? He wasn't a doctor, and he'd like to avoid causing damage to his brain. "All right."

Dr. McCullough injected his forearm with a sedative. As it took effect, the doctor along with Mr. Stark bolted the metal restrains shut on Steve's arms and legs and the cage-like contraption that kept his head in place. The unease Steve felt at being trapped in the restrained gradually faded until he felt pleasantly drowsy. He didn't mind seeing the scalpel in Dr. McCullough's hands or the flash of pain as the doctor sliced open the newly healed skin over the hole in his skull.

The needle Dr. McCullough accepted from Mr. Stark was larger than any Steve had ever seen, filled with a pink-tinged liquid. "This will burn quite a bit. It would be best if you close your eyes, and think again of Rebecca. And please remember to keep as still as possible."

Steve didn't much need an excuse to think of Rebecca, so sure, he closed his eyes and pictured Rebecca waiting for him in the hotel lobby. They could eat in the restaurant there, as long as eggs were on the menu. She liked eggs with her breakfast.

The needle jabbed into his skull, a shooting pain that caused Steve to let out a grunt and squeeze his eyes shut tighter. He thought of the first day he had met Rebecca, seeing her asleep beside the door and taking off his coat. She had looked so odd to him with her hair styled unusually, wearing strange grey pants – or had they been black? He couldn't remember. A part inside his skull began itching, like a rash, as Dr. McCullough stitched the wound closed again. He pictured Rebecca reaching out to take his hand on the dance floor, the gentle press of her palm and they had danced – danced – What dance had they done? He dismissed that memory, jumping to the next as the itching became a burn, like he was suspended over a candle flame and coming closer and closer. Rebecca sitting beside his bed doing – doing… something. Or had she been sitting? He moved on. They were arguing and she was… she had made some kind of expression he found endearing but he couldn't remember.

Steve opened his eyes. Something was wrong. Through the haze of the sedative Dr. McCullough had given him, that single clear thought wormed through. Something wasn't right. His memories of Rebecca were fading; trying to fix on one was like attempting to keep the sun from setting. He couldn't remember how her lips felt, but she had kissed him, of that he was certain. Mostly certain. Or had they… wasn't… He could hear her gasp, and she was above him, but her face… He was having trouble picturing her face, but that didn't make sense.

" _I found someone else from the future… He can make it so you don't remember me at all."_

Her voice, Rebecca's voice speaking to him. She had asked him to forget her, but Steve hadn't wanted to forget. He didn't want to forget now. She was important to him. Someone very important. He struggled against the restrains as the inside of his skull burned.

Dr. McCullough strode around to the front of the chair. "Captain Rogers, you must remain calm," he ordered sternly.

But Steve refused. "You're the scientist," he realized, voice slurred and uneven. "The one Rebecca talked about."

What had Rebecca talked about? Although Steve thought he'd just said, the memory had vanished. He fought against the cloud shrouding his thoughts. He couldn't lose Rebecca. He had to tell her that he loved her. They were supposed to say goodbye.

Metal groaned as Steve tried to sit up, straining to break the cuffs that held him back. The harder he clung to his memories, the faster they seemed to slip from him. He couldn't remember what she looked like. Not even her smile, though he knew that he'd liked the way she smiled more than anything. Even the sound of her voice was gone, although he had heard it in his head only moments ago. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of his eyes, but what rolled down his cheek was a warm trail of blood. He had torn his skin against the cage holding his head in place.

With a sigh like he had expected this to happen, Dr. McCullough took out the stopper from the IV and attached a needle. Steve knew with a certainty that if he allowed that needle to be put in his skin, he wouldn't remember Rebecca at all when he woke up.

"Don't," Steve begged, pulling away. The metal cuffs on his arms screeched out a protest, and pain lanced through his right arm.

"I apologize," said Dr. McCullough. Ignoring Steve's plea, he stuck the needle into his arm. "I should have insisted on the anesthetic. I simply thought it fair that you have some say in the matter."

Steve strained to break free, but collapsed back panting. He looked to Mr. Stark for help, but received only a guilty shake of the head.

"It's too late," Mr. Stark said, as though the statement were an apology.

So Steve returned to fighting the restraints, except that his body felt heavy and useless. He had to remember her, had to remember… remember… The last thing Steve realized before he lost consciousness was that he'd forgotten her name.

* * *

Pain ebbed in his head and arm, but it was a distant thing, like static coming from a neighbor's radio. Steve hurt worse inside. He felt like he had waking up on the morning after Ma had died, with this sense of loss that pervades from his skin all the way down to his soul. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he forced them open, and was briefly confused about where he was.

Then, Dr. McCullough appeared in his vision. There was something about the doctor that Steve didn't like, although he couldn't think what it was that had rubbed him the wrong way. "Your procedure is complete. I'm afraid there were some complications with the vaccine, so I had to administer an anesthetic, but no further complications should arise. I will have you rest, but I would like to ask some brief questions."

Steve shifted. His head rocked in its cage, which had been loosened, but his arms and legs didn't move. "Can you get…?" He jostled his arm, the left one which didn't hurt.

"After the questions," Dr. McCullough promised. "Your name?"

"Steve Rogers."

"And what part of New York do you live in?"

"Brooklyn."

"During the procedure, you mentioned someone. Can you remember who that person is?"

Steve thought. And thought. "I don't remember," he confessed, unsure if that was bad. It felt bad. He couldn't remember the procedure at all.

Dr. McCullough nodded. "Do you know someone named Rebecca?"

"Well... my friend Bucky's got a sister named Rebecca, but we call her Becky."

"And is there anyone else?"

"No."

"Then it must have been your friend's sister," said Dr. McCullough with a friendly pat on Steve's shoulder. "You go ahead and relax now, and we will get these restraints off. Mr. Stark?"

Steve figured he should be glad to get the restraints off, but was overcome by this hollowing sadness. Wondering if something had gone wrong with the procedure that had messed with his brain, he asked Dr. McCullough, who merely assured him that having unstable emotions was an aftereffect.

"The feeling will pass," Dr. McCullough promised. "And you will forget it soon enough."

Steve nodded. He had dealt with side effects of medications before. He could put the strange feeling aside, and he would forget.

* * *

Becca had changed her mind. She wasn't going to let Jack go through with the operation. After Steve had held her last night, promising he would come back for her, she had realized that she couldn't do this to him. They were his memories and although taking them away might be returning Steve back to the person he should have been, it would still be changing him without his permission. To go through with the operation behind his back was a betrayal, and it was wrong. If letting Steve keep his memories of her altered the future in some way, then fuck it. He would still fight Hydra and he would still crash the plane, she was positive of that much. And when he woke up in the future, if he found her again, well, he was smart enough to put two and two together. She was confident that he could make her fall in love with him. And hey, when Thanos sent her back in time, now Steve would know where to look.

Having spent a good portion of the night tossing and turning, Becca slept until Vera woke her by gently shaking her shoulder while her kids were getting ready for school. She got dressed and had a cup of water. The apartment was sweltering even with the windows open, hot gusts of wind making the front door rattle.

By the time Becca reached the Fieldstone, it was almost nine. She expected Steve to be waiting for her down in the lobby, but he wasn't there. They had stayed out late last night. Maybe he was sleeping in. Or maybe he had gone out to run an errand or pick up some more flowers for her or something. She hung around for fifteen minutes watching the elevator. When he still didn't arrive, she checked with the concierge.

"Hi. I was supposed to meet someone here. His name is Steve Rogers."

"Your name, ma'am?" the concierge asked.

"Rebecca Read."

The concierge retrieved a sheet of hotel stationary folded in half and handed it to her. Becca got a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She opened the note.

 _Dear Rebecca,_

 _I'm sorry I missed you. Mr. Stark came early to pick me up for the second part of the test. Don't take the day off work. I'll come to see you._

 _Yours,_

 _Steve_

Becca read the note twice in disbelief. Jack had told her that he planned to do the operations around noon. Noon. Why had he changed his mind? No. Why didn't make a difference. She had to leave immediately. She had to get to the lab.

Becca dashed out of the hotel and bounced impatiently on the curb as she attempted to wave down a cab. Please let it not be too late. She should've asked the concierge when Steve had left the note. She could go back in and ask. No, no that would mean taking more time, time she might not have. She should never have suggested they go through with this operation.

Eventually, a cab pulled over, and Becca jumped into the back seat.

There were three cars parked out front of the lab. Becca didn't recognized one of the cars, but the other two belonged to Jack and Howard. Could someone have let Steve borrow a car? Whatever. It didn't matter. Getting to Steve mattered. She tossed a bunch of money at the cab driver and told him to keep the change before sprinting for the door.

Becca threw open the front door, threw open the door to the main lab. It hit the wall with a bang, which echoed through the empty room. She walked inside, looking around, but her gaze caught on the chair. What the fuck? She touched a metal cuff on one of the arm rests. These hadn't been here when she last visited. She traced the armrests up to a cage-like contraption straight out of a horror movie. Was that blood?

"Jack?" Becca called. "Howard?" She didn't like this. Not at all. It was too quiet. And who had been in the third car? The metal cuffs had loose bolts attached. She took out two of the thick screws and held them point up between the fingers of her right hand, like spiked brass knuckles.

A door opened, and Becca rounded towards it, grounding herself in a fight stance. "Jesus." Jack stood in the doorway, eyeing the screws in her hand with raised eyebrows. "You scared the shit out of me. What's going on? Where's Steve? And Howard?"

"Howard is in the back room," Jack replied. "Steve has already come and gone."

Becca's fists went slack, screws falling to the floor. She had come too late. Somewhere out there Steve was going about his day, getting ready to go overseas, and he didn't even know she existed. All of those months together, every smart comment, every soft look, every kiss wiped away. The boy who had learned that someone could love him, even when he was small and sickly, was gone. And if she passed him on the street, she would get no more than a polite nod. She had found her husband again, and she had lost him.

"I am sorry, Rebecca."

Becca shook her head, leaning on the chair and fighting back tears. "It went fine? There's no damage?"

"None," Jack assured her.

It was a small comfort. Becca patted the cuffs. "Why are there restraints on this chair?"

"To make sure that Captain Rogers remained still and could cause no harm."

"Oh…" Becca sniffed and wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve. "Why'd you do it so early? You said noon."

"And I did plan on completing the procedure around noon. But complications arose."

"What complications?"

"I believed you had had a change of heart about the procedure."

The skin on Becca's arms prickled. "How could you know that?"

"Because I have enlisted some of my acquaintances in tailing you," Jack admitted.

"What?!" Becca yelped, but deep down she wasn't completely surprised. He had known her new address. She was, however, indignant at the invasion of her privacy. She'd had her fill of surveillance in her personal life.

Jack grimaced. "It is an unfortunate situation, and I do apologize, but I had to be sure that you allowed the procedure to continue. You see, this operation was the only way to return time to its original course. And when one of my acquaintances informed me that you planned to meet with Captain Rogers this morning and had appeared… thoughtful, drastic action was required in the event that you truly had changed your mind."

Becca wanted to be angry. Well, she _was_ angry, but she couldn't totally blame Jack in this situation. Until last night, she had been perfectly willing to go behind Steve's back. But she had changed her mind. And Steve had deserved better. And… and she could tell him. She could tell him! That was it! She could go back to the hotel, and if Steve was still there, she could explain. She knew too much for him to dismiss her, and she had the sketch he had done for her back at her apartment and the note he'd written this morning. She could ask for him to forgive her. It was the least she could do.

"Okay. Then, I guess that's that," said Becca, backing up towards the door she had come through. "If you'll excuse me, I need to be alone for a while."

When she opened the door, Becca gasped. Three men stood there in a tight group. They were all tall, one more wiry while the other two were thickset. Their expressions were unnervingly vacant. The man in front grabbed her before she had gotten over the shock of their sudden appearance, and pushed her back into the room.

Her fighting instincts kicked in. Becca threw a punch with her left hand, but the man turned his head so that her fist only grazed his cheek. As she reversed the direction of her swing to elbow him in the throat, another man grasped her arm.

"This will be easier if you do not struggle," Jack asserted, but Becca ignored him.

"Howard!" she screamed. He couldn't be okay with her being manhandled. "Howard!"

Jack sighed. "Mr. Stark is not currently conscious. After I completed the operation on Captain Rogers, I had my acquaintances restrain him. He will be undergoing the same operation shortly. No doubt he will attempt to resist, but it is quite impossible not to think of a person when someone is telling you to remember that very person. The Barnes family will also be arriving later. They are under the impression that they have been invited to a farewell party for Captain Rogers. Once I have finished here, I will then be departing for Europe in order to locate Bucky Barnes."

In all her worrying about Steve, Becca had completely forgotten about the need to erase herself from the memories of the other people close to him so that Steve wouldn't get suspicious. God, she was a complete idiot. It wasn't just Steve she had been betraying, but all of them. They might not remember the procedure afterwards, but while it was happening they would be confused and scared. Unless she could put a stop to this.

Becca pushed off the ground, trying to use the surprise of her full weight to send the men sprawling backwards. It didn't work. She kneed one of them in the groin. He didn't grunt. She kicked and struggled as they bound her wrists with rope. One of the men leaned dangerously close, and in a panic, she bit him hard enough to get a mouthful of blood. She gagged and nearly threw up, a distraction which allowed her ankles to be bound.

When she looked up, Jack had gotten a syringe. "A mild sedative." The men held Becca in place so he could inject the sedative into her arm. "This is difficult for you. I understand."

"Fuck you," Becca spat, a glob of blood-tinged spit dribbling down her chin.

"Please know that this was the only way to preserve the balance of time."

"So what? You're going to erase my memory, too?"

"Oh, no. No." Jack set the empty syringe aside. "If I did that, you would integrate into this time, which would surely involve you having children thereby altering time permanently." He lifted the skirt of her dress.

Becca squirmed, fear clenching in her gut. "Get away from me, you pervert."

Huffing in indignation, Jack gave her an offended look. "I am merely retrieving – Ah." He took her cell phone from the pouch attached to her garters. "I will see this is properly destroyed."

No! Her cell phone was the one thing that might get Howard to talk to her again. Becca made to lunge for Jack – although she couldn't have really done anything with her hands tied behind her back – but the men held her still.

"As I was saying," Jack continued, pocketing her cell phone. "I will allow you to live out your life with the comfort of your memories. I believe that, given time, you will come to see that balance must be kept. Although, I confess, I will be keeping an eye out in case you should attempt to… tip that balance."

Trembling with adrenaline and fury, Becca hissed, "What about these _acquaintances_ of yours?" She shifted her shoulders to draw attention to the men surrounding her, who showed no response at her movement. "Isn't using them 'tipping the balance?'"

"Quite the opposite. They were homeless, alone, and on the verge of death. Appropriating them would cause no alterations in time."

He was freaking crazy. Becca couldn't believe she had never noticed. Obviously, Jack had found these people and turned them into zombies, with their vacant expressions and inability to either feel or react to pain. He was obsessed with keeping the timeline in check. If both she and Steve had refused to wipe his mind, Becca didn't doubt that Jack would have gone on ahead without their permission.

"Fine," she growled. "Fine. But when Steve figures out how to use the Infinity Stone to come get me, I'm going to make sure to pay you a goodbye visit so I can kick your ass."

Jack frowned. "Captain Rogers never used the Time Stone. It was not permitted for anyone to use the Infinity Stones after the wars against Thanos. I thought I made that clear."

Silence dropped down around Becca like a curtain of ice water. Her mind reeled; her breath caught. "But – but… Steve must've been allowed to borrow it. He's Captain America. He wouldn't do anything bad with it."

"Intention is irrelevant," Jack stated slowly, as though he had already explained this point several times but she had repeatedly misunderstood. "It was decided that their power was too great for any person to wield. Hence, the Infinity Watch was formed. My mother would have informed me if the Time Stone had been used when she was entrusted with it."

"Well, maybe she didn't tell you," said Becca, the pitch of her voice rising in desperation. Steve would come back for her. He wouldn't let anyone or anything get in his way. "Maybe she didn't want you to know that she'd broken the rules."

Jack shook his head. "That is simply not the case. Now, I am afraid Rebecca that this is farewell. My acquaintances will hold you for a week until Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark, and myself are out of the country. You will be treated well. I do apologize for this ordeal, and implore you to think upon your future actions."

Tears were streaming down Becca's face as the men dragged her backwards, stumbling. "Steve will come back for me! He will! He promised!" She sobbed, collapsing so that the men truly had to drag her. "He promised."

The three men put Becca in the back of the car she hadn't recognized. She stopped crying after a while, the sedative making her tired. She even fell asleep; she wasn't sure for how long. They drove further out of the city. She tried pleading with the men, threatening, offering secrets about the future. Nothing worked.

They held her in a small house for a week. At least, Becca assumed it was a week because that's what Jack had told her. It felt longer. She made several escape attempts. The farthest she got was out in the yard. While the shower was on, making the pipes rattle, she had broken the bathroom mirror and used a shard to made shallow cuts on her wrists. She pretended to be unconscious when one of the men – she had taken to calling him Mustache, due to his massive bristles – broke open the door. When he was bending over her, she leapt up, smashing his head against the sink and making a run for it. Of course, the house was in the middle of nowhere, but she hoped to reach the trees where she could hide. Mustache and Twitch – his left eyelid spasmed at seemingly random intervals – had caught up and dragged her back inside.

Becca was driven to New York City and left in Brooklyn at the end of the week. She made her way back to her apartment. Vera was relieved to see her, having feared the worst. Steve was gone, so was Howard. She could've gone to the Barneses, but Jack had said he'd be watching. She needed to lay low, but she wasn't giving up. The New York Public Library took her back after she explained that she'd been severely ill. The head librarian seemed relieved they wouldn't have to train someone new.

At the beginning of her lunch break, Becca located the science section and found a book on quantum mechanics. If no one else was going to help her, she was just going to have to help herself. It took only a couple of pages for her to realize that she didn't understand what she was reading at all. She got another book off the shelves, but the writing wasn't any easier to read. Just trying to figure out one of the diagrams was making her head hurt. Fuck. She put her face in her hands. What was she going to do?

"There you are!" Becca started at the voice of Mabel, her bookbinding mentor. "Don't tell me you forgot we get lunch on Thursdays. Since you've been sick, the girls and I thought we'd let you pick the place."

"Oh…"

Becca looked down at the book resting on the table, _The Principles of Quantum Mechanics_. Even if she managed to become an expert on physics and the universe, what were the chances that she could actually figure out time travel? She had no resources, basically no money, and no one had even invented a computer yet, so she had no technology to help. Trying to plow her way through this book would be like repeatedly beating her head against a wall. She flipped the cover, pausing before it hit the pages. Was she giving up? She hated giving up. She _never_ gave up. But maybe… maybe there was a difference between giving up and knowing that there was nothing you could do. Otherwise you just drove yourself crazy going in circles and letting the rest of your life go by. That was basically what she'd been doing so far, and it had gotten her nowhere. Worse than nowhere, really, since she had ended up betraying Steve and getting kidnapped. She didn't want to make another bad mistake. She didn't want to keep bashing her head against the wall. And Steve wouldn't want that

So with a deep breath, Becca let the cover fall. "Sounds good."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And that's the final chapter. I will be posting a epilogue next week. Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. I really appreciate the support. And thanks to my beta anselm0 for always putting up with my writing crises.**

 **(Guest: Thanks! Sorry to totally dash your hopes for a happy ending, but I hope you enjoyed the story overall.**

 **Crystal H: It was the final countdown more than you knew.)**


	25. Epilogue

Steve sat on his couch watching _Airplane!_ , one of Becca's favorite movies, and scratching Sandy's belly as the dog lounged contentedly with her head in his lap.

" _Surely you can't be serious?"_ said Ted on the screen.

" _I am serious,"_ Becca quoted along with the doctor. _"And don't call me Shirley."_ Then, she laughed. The line cracked her up good every time.

Of course, Becca wasn't really in the apartment with him. Steve had no idea where she was. She had been MIA for over five months, ever since Thanos had transported her into the future. If that's what had really happened, which wasn't a certainty. But judging from the mad titan's words and the orange glow which had surrounded Becca before she disappeared, he was almost sure.

The second month had been the hardest. Most people would probably think it'd be the first month, but Steve had been so busy between attempting to find a way to get to Becca without using the Time Stone and helping rebuild New York that he didn't have time to be alone with his thoughts. But when Tony and Bruce hadn't been able to make progress with any of the data they'd managed to collect on the Stones before the Infinity Watch had hidden them, and with Thor and Dr. Strange no longer alive to offer assistance in the understanding of other realms and magics that might explain time travel, Steve was left without any leads.

He had tried to fill up his days and nights with work, staying on construction sites long after crews had gone home, until finally Bucky had dragged him away. They had fought – Steve throwing several punches he soon after regretted – but in the end, he agreed not to push himself past his limits anymore. He agreed because Bucky reminded him that he would be no good to Becca like this, and also because Bucky had seemed worried.

However, when Steve was alone in the apartment, he was reminded that Becca should be there with him. He had started packing away her things, just so he wouldn't have to look at them, but it felt too much like he was moving on and forgetting about her. He wasn't ready to forget. He wasn't giving up. She was his wife, and Thanos had gone after her because of him. He _would_ bring her home.

A knock sounded on the front door. Steve paused the movie. The heavy thud of metal on wood was familiar, so he opened the door without concern about who was on the other side. He got up from the couch, glad as usual to see Bucky. The apartment felt less empty when he visited. Even Sandy gave a happy bark when Steve opened the door, and butted her head against Bucky's leg to be petted.

But when Steve saw Bucky's expression, the lighthearted ribbing that had popped immediately to mind died on his tongue. Bucky looked grim, a frown carved so deeply into his face that Steve wouldn't have believed him capable of smiling if he hadn't seen it plenty of times. There was a sadness there as well, haunting his wide blue eyes. He was standing straight, too straight, like those time back when he had still be overwhelmed by his past but wanted to convince Steve otherwise.

"What's wrong?" Steve questioned, holding the door wide so Bucky could come inside.

Instead, Bucky tilted his head back toward the hallway. "Come on." He patted Sandy's head once and turned without further comment, expecting Steve to follow.

Which Steve did, grabbing his jacket, locking the apartment, and hurrying to catch up. "What happened?"

Bucky shook his head, jamming a finger against the elevator button. He was holding two bouquets of roses, which puzzled Steve.

"Where are we going?"

"Green-Wood," Bucky answered dully.

Visiting the Brooklyn cemetery would explain Bucky's mood and the flowers. They had already gone to a funeral there after the battle with Thanos to bury one of his nephews and three grand-nieces. Steve wondered if Becky had finally passed on. She had been fighting a losing battle with cancer when last he'd heard.

Steve asked, "Who is it?" but Bucky only shook his head again. If he didn't want to talk, Steve wasn't going to make him. He put a hand on Bucky's shoulder to give him some kind of support. Bucky winced like the touch had hurt him, but he didn't move away.

The ride over to Green-Wood Cemetery took longer than it would've before the war. There was still so much work to be done around the city. Whole neighborhoods had be destroyed, parts of the subway system collapsed, streets unsafe for buses to drive on. Bucky didn't say a word the whole way, and Steve kept an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

They walked through the gates of the cemetery, Steve following Bucky's lead until he stopped in front of a gravestone. It looked much like the other gravestones in the line, polished grey, rounded top. The inscription was simple. _Rebecca Read. February 5, 2013. Beloved friend._

Although Steve didn't recognize the name, he accepted the bouquet Bucky offered and laid it before the gravestone. Bucky stared at the name for a long moment, until Steve lightly rubbed his arm, at which point he braced himself and pulled a manila envelope out from his jacket. From inside, he took out another envelope, this one letter sized, and held it out.

His name was on the front, and it was in Becca's handwriting. Steve snatched the envelope from Bucky's hand. He flipped the envelope over, excitement flooding through him. On the back was written _"To be delivered June 2017_. _"_ The envelope had already been opened, and he eagerly took out the letter and unfolded it.

 _Dear Steve,_

 _I love you. I miss you. I've tried writing this letter way too many times, but it never ended up sounding right, especially the opening. So I finally decided that I should just start with what's the most important._

 _I'm sure you're wondering what happened to me after Thanos used the Infinity Stone. He sent me back to 1941. Crazy, right? It certainly seemed crazy to me at first. But by some small bit of luck he dropped me in the same city. I didn't know what was going on, but to get anywhere I knew I needed money. All I had worth anything was the engagement ring you bought me. I didn't want to give it up, but you convinced me that you wouldn't mind. You. Yes, I met you. We became friends, and then more than friends._

 _But of course, you don't remember any of this. That's my fault. There was a man I met from way, way in the future who could selectively wipe your memory by injecting a compound into your brain I was afraid that you knowing me would make the future different, that something bad would happen to the world, but mostly to me. You didn't want to get the operation, but we tricked you. It was selfish. It was wrong. I went to stop it, but I was too late. I'm not saying that means you shouldn't blame me. I just want you to know that I couldn't let that happen to you again. I guess this is me being selfish. I don't want you to think badly of me, but I know you have every right to feel betrayed. I also know you'll forgive me. Let yourself be angry first. Let yourself be sad. And then let me go._

 _I've lived a full life. Sure, there were times when I really wished I could go back, but I moved on. I worked in the library, and once the world finally figured out that women are good for more than staying behind the scenes and making babies, I was able to get back into advertising. I might've made a few well placed investments to ensure I wasn't broke. You're the love of my life of course, but I found love again. It never got serious, but I wasn't lonely. I found friends. I boarded with a family, and over the years the Legates sort of adopted me as the hip and totally awesome aunt. I'm content. I promise._

 _So don't waste time looking for me. What happened isn't your fault. You don't owe me anything. We had over four years together, and while they weren't the easiest four years, I still think of them fondly, and I hope you will, too. Don't let the name change fool you; I'm proud to be your wife. I will always be proud to be your wife, just as I know that you will always be proud to be my husband. But I give you permission to be proud to have someone else at your side. Maybe a metal-armed, blue-eyed dreamboat? Just saying. Be happy, Steve. That's all that I need you to do for me. Be happy. Oh, and take good care of my movie collection. You know it's my baby._

 _Love always,_

 _Becca_

Steve didn't remember meeting Becca in the time she had written about, but he _did_ remember a procedure done on his brain with a scientist he hadn't seen before or since.

He knew immediately that he had to find her. He wasn't going to let Becca go no matter what she said. He had to at least see her and… and suddenly he remembered where he was. Becca had mentioned a name change.

"No," Steve wheezed, like he'd been punched in the gut. His brain scrambled for another explanation. Maybe the letter was fake. Someone could've forged it.

His fingers shifted against the letter, and the corner of what looked like a newspaper peaked out from behind. He placed it on top. The newspaper clipping had yellowed with age. From the size, this article wasn't a front page story, but it had a bold headline proclaiming "Miss America?" Beneath was a picture of him during his USO tour in which he and Becca were smiling at each other.

It was too much. The article proof with that smile of Becca's he loved so much. The letter, it sounded like Becca and the handwriting was a match. Steve knew the letter was real as surely as he knew why Bucky had brought him here.

Steve cried, tears falling on the letter before he tucked it safely back into its envelope. As he looked at Becca's gravestone, he sank to the ground. She should've come to him. She should've told him what would happen. He could've saved her. But now she was dead. He slammed a fist into the ground twice, tearing up grass, and felt immediately guilty for desecrating her grave.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, patting the grass back into place. "Hell, Becca I'm sorry."

Bucky was on the ground beside him, his eyes glassy. He wrapped a comforting arm around Steve's shoulders as Steve had done for him earlier. Steve leaned against him as he sobbed for Becca and the life they'd never have. He didn't know how long he cried. He stopped when there were no tears left.

After Steve had calmed, Bucky spoke to him quietly. "When the letter came to Stark Tower, Stark did a background check to be sure the letter was authentic. Looks like Becca managed to buy herself an identity, but it left traces he could follow. He explained when I ran into him, and I went to visit the family. The Legates. They had a lot of good to say. I think she really was happy."

Steve nodded. "Good."

"They made copies of some photographs. I don't know if you…"

Steve hesitated, unsure if he was ready to see Becca aged. It had been difficult visiting Peggy. But he decided, "I'd like to see them." He needed to see the proof that she was as content as she'd said.

From in the manila envelope, Bucky took out a stack of photos. The top one was black and white, Becca looking slightly older, face turned away from the camera setting a birthday cake in front of a group of children. Another photo in faint color, Becca one of many dancers. Another, Becca with a family – the Legates he assumed – on a picnic. Bucky explained the stories behind the photos, and Steve watched her grow older, lines forming on her face, skin beginning to sag, grey hairs appearing and being dyed away. And slowly, he got this strange feeling like…

Steve took the last and most recent photo from Bucky, which showed Becca on her hundredth birthday. And peering closely at the photo, he had a bittersweet realization.

* * *

Becca sat on the park bench, dreading the moment when she would have to stand up. Park benches were not made for people who had by some miracle managed to survive past one hundred. The wood was hard, and she'd been sitting her for hours every day for the past two months. She knew she had the year right – 2012 was burned in her memory as the year of the alien invasion – and the location, but she wasn't entirely sure of the month or day. Or she was pretty sure it'd been 2012. Her mind wasn't what it used to be.

Then, Becca saw him and her breath caught in her throat. It had been over 70 years, but Steve looked the same. Of course, he did. He'd been frozen in ice as most of her life went by. She instinctively patted her hair, but realized she was being ridiculous. She was an dumpy old lady. Older than him. God. He walked right past her without so much as a look, much to her disappointment. However, he sat on the bench next to hers and took out his sketchbook.

Although Becca had been waiting to see Steve – compelled by nostalgia or some need at the end of her life to finally put her past to rest – she remained unsure of whether or not to approach him. She hadn't approached anyone so far. Not her family, whose house Becca had parked across the street from years ago to watch until someone knocked on her window to ask if she was all right while she sobbed. Not Ally, who had stood at the counter of her favorite coffee shop, bouncing her head along to the music on her iPod and not once noticing her best friend sitting at a nearby table. Not anyone else Becca had visited. She was no one, a shadow, a ghost. And the weirdest part was seeing herself.

Becca glanced down the walkway. Her vision wasn't the best but – there she was. Pacing back and forth in front of tree, leaning on it, waiting in agitation for her dealer. She'd like to go smack herself and tell herself to lay off the pills. But she wouldn't interfere. Her younger self wouldn't listen anyway. She'd been convinced she wasn't a drug addict. Nothing but a cold dose of reality would snap her out of her addiction. Well, reality and Steve.

And here she came, stalking down the walkway. Her younger self met her eyes for a split second, and passed on. Why sit with the old lady when there's a hottie on the next bench? Becca smiled as her younger self struck up a conversation with Steve. By being completely nosy, of course. Two people meeting who thought they'd never see each other again. The universe worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes in shitty ways, but sometimes in the best ways.

Steve shook his head as her younger self walked away, but he was smiling. Becca decided seeing that smile was enough. She had seen him, had felt the comforting warmth of her love for him. It was time to get back. She had a little apartment in Brooklyn next to Jenny Legate, who insisted on looking in on her practically daily. For being a young adult, Jenny acted like more of a little old lady than Becca did. Becca pretended the visits bothered her – she could, in fact, take care of herself fine – but she enjoyed seeing Jenny.

Of course, getting up turned out to be a problem as Becca had anticipated. She leaned on her cane. Okay, one, two, three. She heaved, straining to get to her feet. Pain shot through her back. Nope. Try again. One, two, three. No. She sighed. That's what she got for sitting here for so long. She'd rest a couple of seconds and try again.

"Ma'am?" Becca jerked her head in Steve's direction. He was looking right at her. "Would you like some help?"

Becca blushed. Oh this just figured. "No. No, I'm all right. Thank you."

Okay. She was going to get to her feet, and show Steve that she was fine. One, two, three. Becca heaved and almost made it. Almost. Goddammit.

Steve's legs appeared in her vision first, then his hand. Becca looked at it, feeling a flash of resentment. She could've gotten up on her own eventually. Still, she took the help.

His hand in hers, it was like a long forgotten memory. She wouldn't have been able to describe how his hand felt only seconds before, but now she couldn't believe she had ever forgotten. With his support, Becca got to her feet.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," replied Steve, and when he dropped her hand, Becca barely kept from reaching to take it again.

Becca had a million things she wanted to say, and she knew she couldn't say any of them. That's why she'd written them in a letter to be sent to Stark Tower after Thanos was defeated. She would have sent it to their apartment, but couldn't for the life of her remember the address.

So Becca said the first thing that popped into her head. "It's a nice day." The weather? She hadn't seen him for 70 years and she was going to talk about the _weather_?

"It is," Steve agreed.

After a moment passed in silence, Becca realized this could only get more awkward. "Well, I'll be on my way. Thanks again."

She turned away, and got three shuffling steps before Steve offered, "Can I walk you home, ma'am?"

"I'll be fine."

"I don't mind."

"Stubborn," Becca murmured, but with affection. "Okay, but I'm warning you, once I get some momentum going, I can get up to the speed of a pretty spry turtle."

Steve grinned. "I'll try to keep up."

Becca lead them towards the subway, thinking of topics to keep the focus on Steve and prevent him from asking about her. And yet… this was an opportunity. A chance to say goodbye. He had a really good memory. When the right time came and he figured out what had happened to her, she could give him this moment to look back on, and she could have this one moment to hold onto. She could have her peace. So she thought of the best way to nudge a conversation in the right direction.

"You from around here?" she asked.

"I'm living downtown," Steve replied. "But I grew up in Brooklyn."

"Well, Brooklyn's where we're headed."

Steve took her arm to help her down the subway stairs. "Yeah? You lived there long?"

"Since '41." Okay, nothing direct enough to be obvious. Subtly was key. Becca casually went on, "You know, Captain America's from Brooklyn." She felt Steve tense. "Maybe you remember him from a history class?"

"Uh… yeah." Steve couldn't feign casualness quite as well, but bless him, he tried. "Sounds familiar."

"I got to meet him back when he was just Steve Rogers. He had a smart mouth, but he was sweet underneath." Becca gave him a mischievous smile. "And cute, too," she added, at which Steve looked adorably bewildered. Only Steve would get the pleased kind of flustered at an old lady's recollection of him as cute.

"You think?"

"Oh yeah. I had a big ol' crush on him," Becca continued with a laugh. If anyone at that time had a gigantic crush it'd been him. Not that she had noticed. Not that'd he'd even recall. Her laughter died. "'Course I don't think he'd remember me."

Steve was peering at her thoughtfully. "Did you live in my neighborhood?"

A slip up. Becca let it go as if she hadn't noticed. "No, but I'd see him around from time to time."

"Huh."

At the bottom of the stairs, they put their MetroCards through the turnstiles – Becca had a sudden flashback to little Steve hurrying in front of her so he put enough coins in the slots to pay for both their fares – and walked towards the correct platform.

"Lord, how rude am I?" Becca said abruptly, not wanting Steve to think too hard. She didn't need him to remember her _that_ well. Not yet. "Here I am prattling on about Steve Rogers, and I didn't even introduce myself." She had to stop and leaned on her cane to hold out her hand. "Rebecca Read." She paused for a second, but then used the name she hadn't heard in years. "But I prefer Becca."

Steve shook her hand. He seemed to be debating, but said his real name "… Steve" like an omission of guilt.

"Well. Small world." Becca sighed for effect. "It's too bad you aren't Steve Rogers. I'd have liked to say something to him if he'd ever come back."

"Like what?"

This was it. This was her moment. Becca gathered her thoughts together. All these years, all her feelings summed up to this man who thought she was a stranger. Who had no idea that the wedding ring she still wore was the one he would one day put on her finger . Who had no idea how much she still love him. "That I'm sorry. That he meant a lot to me. That I know he's had it hard, but I also know he can find it in himself to be happy again."

Steve looked at her, and looked. And something in his expression softened. "I think he'd like to have heard that."

"I hope so."

Becca patted his arm and kept moving down the platform because if she didn't do something, she was going to start crying.

They didn't speak on the platform or on the subway car. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but easy, like it had always been. Becca allowed herself to just enjoy him sitting beside her, to savor this one last bit of closeness she'd thought for a very long time she would never have again. He helped her up from her seat on the subway car – and she allowed it this time for the rush of his strong arms holding her.

Out on the platform in Brooklyn, however, Becca noticed him looking uncertainly at the exit. That's right. He hadn't visited for a long time once he'd come back. Well, she wouldn't make him if he wasn't prepared to face his past.

"You head on back," she assured him, and lied, "My building is right up those stairs."

"Are you sure?" Steve checked. "I can –"

"No, no. I won't have you paying to come back in." Becca took his hand. She would've liked to press a kiss to his cheek, but didn't think she could managing hopping up on her toes like she used to. "Thanks for walking me home. It was nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"Maybe we'll see each other again."

Steve smiled, but he didn't look like he believed her, and Becca got a strange sense of déjà vu. "Maybe."

"Goodbye, Steve."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Read."

"Becca."

Steve's brow furrowed, but he corrected himself. "Goodbye, Becca."

And with that, Becca walked away, letting go of her emotions, allowing the tears to fall down her cheeks, but she smiled because she knew that soon Steve would again run into the young woman who needed him as much as he needed her. And they would fight. And they would love. And they would realize that they could live without each other, but in the end, they would never forget each other. Not really.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **PREQUEL ANNOUNCEMENT!**

 **So that is the end of Becca and Steve's relationship. Their story has come full circle, but that does not mean the series is over. I will be writing a third part to this series: _To Stand Unshielded_. This story will be taking place during and after the events of _The Winter Soldier_. It's going to be dark and gritty, and I'm excited to get started. However, since I still need to finish nailing down the outline and completing story research (and the holidays are crazy), I will first be putting out another collection of one-shots. _Moments Together_ will be a collection of fluffy, fun one-shots with Steve and Becca, each featuring other MCU characters or some of my OCs. Thanks again to all my readers for their support.**


End file.
